


Bearing Your Name

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Canon Compliant With Season 2 Without The Fall, Crack, Dark Comedy, Don't Judge Me, Fuck Or Die, Happy Ending, Lady Smallwood Is A Bitch, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, No Eurus Holmes, Not Always Policitally Correct, Panic Attacks, Romantic Soulmates, Sherlock Has Great Friends, Sherlock is a Mess, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Soul-Name, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-06-28 02:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19802494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock gets 30. It's the magic age. People get their soul-name written on their arms, or they don't as not everybody has a soulmate. Sherlock is convinced nothing will happen. Well... :)





	1. The Revelation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



> I toyed with the idea of writing a soulmate fic for a while but never found a good idea. Then I stumbled over this "people get their soulmate's name written on their arm" trope. I had not read a single soulmate story until then as they almost don't exist in this ship. I wanted to write one where they are biological brothers and I think it's about time such a story comes to life! So there you have it. I don't know how often I will update but I hope you will be patient and I hope you will like it. The trope might be very common but I'm doing it Holmes Brothers' style (how else) and I hope it will please some of you.

Sherlock would have sworn that it wouldn't happen to him. How could it even? He, Mr-Scientist-and-Logic. He couldn't deny that it existed, but definitely not for him. He had always been convinced that he belonged to the about sixteen percent of the popularity who never got it. Like John. Like his brother. Those people lived their lives, undisturbed by this magical nonsense. It was his mother who had always said she firmly believed that Sherlock was none of them. She had found hers in his father, and they were very happy, and she was sure Sherlock would get his one, too. Sherlock had told her that it was nonsense and hardly ever wasted a thought on it.

And today he had turned thirty. His mother called him in the morning, saying, _"It's going to happen at noon. You will see."_

"I will see lunch then," Sherlock dryly retorted, and returned to his experiment (which involved a rotten human nose, acid and coffee).

He got lost in his work, solved a case when a desperate client showed up, and returned to the sizzling nose again, startling when John burst into the kitchen.

"It'll be noon in five minutes!"

"I'm amazed that you can read the clock, John."

"Come on! Roll up your sleeve."

Sherlock sighed. "Nothing will happen, you know that."

John shrugged. "Nothing happened to _me_ , that's right. But you – you are so special."

"Exactly! So who should be my..." Sherlock couldn't even speak it out, the stupid word.

"Soulmate."

"Thank you..."

John sat down on a kitchen chair. "Imagine it! You will have to have sex with this person - if they already have the mark - real sex with mutual orgasms, within five days or otherwise your and their heart will give up. But if you do it, you'll fall in love with them for eternity."

As if Sherlock didn’t know that. One could hardly switch on the telly without hearing this nonsense, and John and Mrs Hudson spoke about it often enough. Who had even hatched this cruelty! Which nasty power of the universe thought of something like this? A very perverse and stupidly romantic and horny one, obviously... Sherlock was very happy that he would get spared. He didn’t believe that he was meant for _eternal love_. Or for love at all. He didn't want to have sex with anyone. Let alone... ejaculate into someone! Or even worse: have someone ejaculate into him! The thought made his stomach turn.

If the soulmates were a man and a woman - which even if he wasn't one of the exceptions would not be the case for him as his orientation was gay - the man had to come in the woman's... thing... Two men could have anal intercourse or oral one, and both had to spill their seed into one of these openings. It was just horrible. But it wouldn't happen anyway so why bother... If anyone was bearing his name on his skin, Sherlock would have surely been told about it. Sure, if the person was younger than him, they wouldn't know it of course...

"Please! Show me your forearm!"

"For God's sake, John. If you insist..." Sherlock rolled up his left sleeve with more force than necessary. His purple shirt made a protesting noise, and he couldn't blame it...

John laughed maniacally. “I bet it'll start with an 'I'!”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Why? Oh, dear Lord… I didn’t want anything from Irene!” Had his flatmate really still not got that he was gay?

“If you say so… Ten..."

"Oh please, no countdown!"

"Nine..."

"It's going to lead to nothing!"

"Eight..."

Sherlock sighed and pouted, close to putting his hands onto his ears. Or perhaps around John's neck…

He was nervous. He would never admit it to John, but he was nervous...

And then Mrs Hudson burst into the room. "Oh, I've almost missed it!"

"Four..."

"You're not missing anything!" Sherlock hissed.

"Three..."

Sherlock clenched his teeth.

"Two..."

What was happening? Was it just the anxiety? Sherlock's left forearm started to prickle. Oh dear Lord... No!

"One..."

"Nothing happened, see!" Sherlock started to roll down the sleeve, but John grabbed his hand.

"There! The first letter!"

"What is it?" Mrs Hudson screeched.

"It's an 'M'."

"Oh, it's not Molly Hooper, is it?"

Then Sherlock would take John's gun and shoot himself. He really would...

"Next one is... What is that? A 'V'?"

Sometimes the letters in the theatrically squiggled soulmate-writing were not easy to identify at first.

"'Mv'? That doesn't make any sense!" their landlady said, irritated.

John narrowed his eyes while staring at Sherlock's shivering arm. "No, I see it, it's a..." He broke off and gulped.

So did Sherlock. It was a 'Y'. And there didn't have to be any more letters for them to know which name it would be in the end, did there?

John was clearly thinking the same. His face was a mask of confusion. "But he's way older than you and he doesn't have one!"

Yes, that's what Mycroft had told everybody. He had even shown his arm to Sherlock and their parents! But... nobody had been around at the time of times. Had he... used makeup?! Hadn't the skin looked a bit odd? Less freckled than it should have been expected? Or had he even used some kind of magic to conceal it? He definitely had not let it disappear for good. That wasn’t possible. The name was only removable by skinning the arm or burning it. And that still didn’t change anything about being a soulmate for some destined person…

Sherlock stared at the 'C' with eyes full of horror. The 'R' was making his toes curl. The 'O' matched the expression of his mouth. And he didn’t even want to look at the 'F'…

"But he's your brother," Mrs Hudson breathed. "How can that be?!"

Sherlock was staring at the jeeringly forming 'T'. Was it really so surprising? The soulmate of one's person should match them. It could have never been Molly, even if Sherlock hadn't been gay. And who but Mycroft should match him? In intelligence, awkwardness and social incompatibility with basically everyone? And now they had an explanation why Mycroft never wore short-sleeved shirts, not even when it was boiling hot... He had been sitting on this knowledge for seven fucking years!

And Sherlock, doomed to memorise every damn statistic he'd ever read about, knew that 0,076 percent of the people who got the soulmate mark were destined to be with their own sibling, probably because there simply was nobody else who could bear them... Society as a whole and people who knew the partners in particular felt a bit awkward about these people but it was accepted as it was fate after all.

He had been right. He _was_ an exception. Just not quite the one he had longed to be.

His phone rang. "It's Mummy," he said tonelessly after glancing at the display.

John groaned. "My God. What will she think about it?!"

Sherlock took the call, knowing he couldn't avoid her forever.

He had no choice. He had to sleep with his brother within five days from today as he was the second one to receive the name or they would both die. He thought about John's gun again, but probably he wouldn't need it as Mycroft would never want to have sex with him and rather sacrifice them both than sealing the bond...

"Hello, Mummy... You were right. My bloody _soul-name_ appeared. Want to take a guess?" He sounded way cheekier than he was feeling.

And to his never-ending surprise, she guessed right at the first try, and _she_ wasn't surprised at all.

*****

When Sherlock ended the connection, he still heard his mother's voice.

_'I've always known that it had to be the both of you or none for either of you.'_

_'I was a bit disappointed at first when Mycroft didn’t seem to have one, but I then I wasn't sure if he was telling the truth.'_

_'I didn't say anything because I knew that if he was lying, the day would come, and you boys always knew you could come to me if you need advice.'_

_'I know you are meant for each other. You are my special sons. Nobody else could be the one for you.'_

_'You’ve got to make it work, Sherlock.'_

Sherlock felt numb now. His eyes darted to the name on his arm every few seconds as if staring at it for long enough would make it disappear.

John and Mrs Hudson were sitting next to him at the table, Mrs Hudson holding his hand. They were both surprisingly quiet.

But what was there to say? This was a disaster. Mycroft had not said a word about this. For nearly seven long years he had kept this secret, probably hoping a miracle would happen and Sherlock wouldn’t get the mark. It did happen. Very rarely. In 0,043 percent of the cases only one soulmate partner received the name. Sherlock couldn’t remember what happened to them in this case but he assumed they were off the hook then as the universe couldn’t be _that_ cruel. On the other hand they didn’t know there was nobody to get their name written on their skin. They would have to wait until their last breath to be sure that there was none.

Not that it mattered. He had it. And he was sure Mycroft had it, too. So many things suddenly made more sense now. Mycroft's stiff behaviour towards him. The growing distance between them. It hadn't only been the drugs and the bad manners. It had been the knowledge that in all probability, this day would come, and his brother couldn't deal with it any better than he could.

John cleared his throat. “It could be worse, you know…”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. There are people who never meet their soulmate before the name appears, and it's only a first name! They have to go looking for him or her and if they don't succeed before the timespan is over…” John made a nasty gesture with his hand.

Sherlock knew that of course. There were plenty of internet sites, specialised in helping people to find their soulmates, and sometimes they had even come to him and John, but he had hardly ever taken the cases, boring as they were, and told them to try their luck with the search sites. If their names were 'Mahagrzzta' and 'Twiowews' (or Sherlock and Mycroft…), they had a good chance of finding each other. 'Jack' and 'Mary' obviously had more problems…

And if the wrong 'Jack' and 'Mary' or 'Anne' and 'Emma' had matched up, for whatever reason having come to the wrong conclusion that they had found their soulmate, they would be up to a big and deadly surprise after their bonding-sex… Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how the whole ejaculating-part was working with two women but that was really not his concern or anything he wanted to think about. Also, the force behind this saw a person's real sexual orientation. There had been many people who had been shocked to find out their soulmate shared their gender… And some of these unpleasantly surprised people had come to him too, and he had told them to accept that they were, in fact, gay or bi, and to go for it. It hadn't gone down well.

All in all, it was a very complicated business. And for him it was a true nightmare!

Mrs Hudson patted his hand. “Yes, and you know your brother is healthy. Because sometimes the soulmate is injured, covered in plaster from head to toe after a car accident or something, and they can't _do_ it!”

Sherlock groaned. “Don't remind me of that! I… can't do that either, plaster or not! I can't… have sex with him! And even if we manage that, does anyone of you seriously believe it will make us fall in love with each other forever?! This is _Mycroft_! The _Iceman_! Probably my cock will freeze and break off if he touches it!” His voice had got louder with every sentence.

John burst out laughing, and Sherlock hit him on the back of his head at the same time as Mrs Hudson was doing it. “Ouch! Sorry! But that _was_ funny…”

Sherlock sighed. “I'll have to talk to him.”

“Now that will be a scene…”

Indeed. And Mycroft had known it was coming. So he wouldn’t be at work.

They wouldn't be able to hide their relationship from anyone. If everything went well, which it probably wouldn’t, they would be so crazy for each other that they would have to meet many times a day and in the very least kiss each other for minutes. Sherlock had heard the craziest stories about freshly bonded soulmates who ripped each other's clothes off and had sex, even if grandma, the dog, the priest and a few toddlers were around. It was very hard to imagine himself being like this (with Mycroft!) but he had to face the facts.

His parents had been long out of this phase when he had been born, but they still held hands and patted each other frequently when he met them, and their glances at each other made rather clear that they still had a very healthy sex life in their age, which had always made Sherlock feel exceptionally uncomfortable, and he had seen the same reaction in his brother's face when they had met their parents together. He had thought that it was the usual embarrassment of people having to face the fact that their parents had not quit having sex after producing their children, especially people who didn’t have an active sex life themselves. In the past seven years though, Mycroft's reaction had probably been influenced by other aspects, too…

In any way everybody would know it soon enough, but his brother would avoid letting the initial confrontation happen in his bloody office. So he would be at home, waiting, like a frightened, umbrella-armed spider in its web, not knowing how to deal with the unwelcome, oversized mosquito with the black curls…

Sherlock got up, and his knees were annoyingly shaky. “I'll go then.”

“Good luck!” John and Mrs Hudson said simultaneously.

Sherlock grimaced and mumbled a lukewarm 'thanks'. He didn’t need luck. He needed a miracle.


	2. The Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds his brother who is already waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support for the first chapter! :) 
> 
> One thing before we go on: I don't mean to offend anyone with this fic. I don't mean to imply asexual people can or have to be "cured". I don't want to make fun of anybody. Okay, except for Sherlock maybe :) Never take this fic too seriously. 
> 
> But there will also be pretty angsty parts, followed by funnier ones, and all over again. It is a bit of a rollercoaster for the boys and especially Sherlock will be torn between hope and fear. 
> 
> And of course they will not die. I would never let either of them die in any of my stories. Thanks for your attention! And for reading :)

It was impossible to sit still. It had been already very difficult to focus on his reports in the morning but now that noon had come, Mycroft was pacing through his house, up the stairs, down the stairs, and he thought with grim humour that at least he wouldn’t have to use his treadmill today.

He had known this day would come and he could have taken this day off almost seven years ago. On his thirtieth birthday, he, sitting in his silent office, had stared at the name on his arm, being terrified and shaken to the core – but not exactly surprised.

He had known that he loved his little brother in a romantic way for six years by then. And a hidden part of him had even hoped that his name would appear on his skin, engraving his destiny, and this part had made a jump of joy when first the 'S' and then the 'H' had materialised. The rest of him had almost died of anxiety…

Because Sherlock had never shown the slightest hint that he was interested in him in such a way. Or at all, actually, since he had reached puberty. The adorable boy with the cheeky grin and nothing but nonsense in his little head had turned into a grumpy, moody, misanthropic teenager who oozed nothing but rebellion and contempt seemingly within the blink of an eye. He had never entirely grown out of this phase and Mycroft had been his favourite victim.

Having left home for uni and then work around the time when Sherlock had changed so much, he had visited home increasingly unwillingly, knowing he would be the preferred target of Sherlock's black moods, cruel jokes and general disdain. But that hadn't been the only reason to avoid visiting his parents' home whenever possible. As if Sherlock's behaviour hadn't been awful enough, he had turned into an irresistible, beautiful, breathtaking young man, and Mycroft had, despite his brattishness, slowly but inevitably fallen for him in ways society didn’t look at with friendly eyes.

He had hidden his feelings from Sherlock and everybody else of course, and the icy relationship they had developed over Sherlock's ill-fated and on two occasions almost lethal drug use and their general estrangement had made it a lot easier to pretend he was nothing but annoyed by his brother – even though he had always taken care of Sherlock if he had needed him so he hadn't quite been able to deny that beneath all their problems, he did care for him, but it had never seemed to be in a rather questionable way.

Ironically, the only romantic and sexual relationships between siblings that were accepted were the ones between soulmates. If destiny decided that two siblings were meant to be together as lovers, people might still find it weird and disturbing, but they didn’t say it out loud… So this day would turn his so far forbidden feelings for his brother into socially-accepted ones. It should have been a happy day for him. And it would have been if he'd had any reason to believe that Sherlock would even consider acting on their mutual fate…

Even after the seven long years he'd had time to ponder about this malicious destiny he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He and Sherlock, meant to be together. The hopelessly-in-love-older brother and the 'don't-touch-me-or-I'll-bite-your-hand-off'-younger brother. This was a bond made in hell!

Of course there wouldn’t have been anyone else for either of them, either. They didn’t fit with the common people. They were too smart, too weird, too exhausting, too cold. He had been jealous of Irene Adler though as she had confused Sherlock and drawn his attention to herself like nobody else had. But he had had the soul-name on his arm already of course, had known that she was not meant for his brother even though she might have believed it. And Mycroft knew he wouldn’t have fallen for anyone else than Sherlock, ever.

He'd had sex with other men, long ago. Before Sherlock's name had graced his arm. He had not liked it. He had liked the sensation, had admired the male form with plane stomachs and muscular thighs and broad shoulders, and yes, the cock. But he hadn't liked being so close to anyone, being uncomfortable around other people and stupidly feeling as if he was betraying the one he really loved. Ironically enough, it hadn't been that stupid… It wasn't dangerous or really problematic to have sex with anyone before one got bonded with his soulmate. And society didn’t judge it either, especially not before one got to know who their soulmate was. It was even considered to be a good idea to make some experiences beforehand so the bonding sex went smoothly.

Only that his wouldn’t go anything like smoothly, if it happened at all. Perhaps Sherlock hated him so much that he'd rather _die_ than taking him to bed… And falling in love with him, for eternity above all? That was like believing in Father Christmas…

It was a quarter past noon now. Mycroft stopped his manic pacing and walked to the front door. He could feel it - Sherlock would ring the doorbell anytime now. He turned off the alarm and opened the locks.

And when he was just finished, the doorbell made him wince, and after taking the deepest breath of his life, he opened up to let his brother, his soulmate, into his house.

*****

Sherlock rushed past his brother and tossed his coat onto the table next to the door before he turned to him. “At home in the middle of a work day? Are you ill?”

He saw Mycroft cringe at his tone and he almost felt ashamed. Almost… The fury outbalanced this feeling by far. “Seven years. Well, not quite. Six years, nine months and twenty-two days. That's how long you've known it! Why haven't you told me?!” It had always been so easy to have this tone with his brother. Mycroft had never really yelled back, had he? He had been all smug and cool and above such disgraceful behaviour, answering with strident words in completely polite volume, managing to infuriate Sherlock even more. Oh, they had known how to drive each other up the wall for sure. And now it turned out that they should drag each other to bed… Great…

Mycroft answered in a completely calm tone. “Come in, Sherlock. Let's sit down.”

“Yes, sitting is all you do all day; everything can be solved while sitting behind a desk, right? But you won't be able to sit this out any longer and hope it disappears!”

But he did follow his brother when he silently led the way to what probably was his living room. Sherlock had never been in his house before. That's how great they had been getting along… He still couldn’t believe it. Soulmates! This was the joke of the century. Yes, they did match one another in some areas like intelligence, education and the general contempt for stupid people. But that was it! They had been fighting for more than half of Sherlock's life and now they were supposed to be lovers?! Lovers forever?

He let himself fall onto a black, very nicely cushioned couch. From what he had seen, the house was surprisingly homely. He had registered it despite his shaken condition. It was a rather pleasant home for someone who practically lived in his offices.

But he had to focus now. Mycroft's living arrangements were not his concern at the moment. “Why, Mycroft. Why did you lie?” He snorted when the other man avoided his look. “Did you hope I wouldn’t get the mark? Didn’t you see the statistics for that? Did you maybe think yours would just disappear again? That's not how it works! Or…” he leaned forward and glowered at his brother, “did you think _another_ Sherlock was meant with yours? Didn’t you think that's a tiny bit improbable? _'Oh, damn, that's my brother's very unusual name, isn’t it? But that doesn’t have to mean this mark's about him. There could be another Sher…'_ ”

“Stop it, Sherlock! It's quite enough…”

“No, it is not. You had seven fucking years to think about this and I'll have five bloody _days_ before I die because not in this lifetime you'd ever agree to this!” Being soulmates didn’t _force_ people to become lovers. They had a choice. They could also _die_!

“I… You think _I_ won't agree to this?” Now Mycroft sounded seriously confused.

Sherlock shook his head. “Well, you don't see me dancing around in ecstasy about that! But before I die with bloody _thirty_ , I'd do a lot.”

Mycroft's face fell. “Even have sex with me…”

Sherlock closed his eyes in terror. The sheer thought made him feel all dizzy and tingly. “We can do that, or we can share a grave for eternity…” Because it was the common and, in Sherlock's eyes, completely nasty custom to bury the soulmates that had failed to reach the bond next to each other, if they were both available of course and if it could be made sure who they actually were. It didn’t quite work if the alleged partners hadn't found each other in the first place, because, for example, one of them had got lost on an Antarctica expedition in the period that counted. Speaking of Antarctica…

“I'll do it as we don't have an acceptable choice, Mycroft. What about you? Are you willing to, I don't know, bury the hatchet and give it a try?” Sherlock scrutinised him, realising his voice had been a little bit shrill. “Neither of us has chosen this but we'll have to deal with it.”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course. As you say. No choice. I guess if you could have chosen, you would have picked John Watson as your soulmate. Or your old childhood friend, Victor…”

John! Everybody was so disappointed that John didn’t have Sherlock's name on his arm. They didn’t fit at all! John was a good man, brave and decent, albeit a little rough around the edges. But Sherlock could imagine having sex with him even less than with Mycroft! And Victor? Sherlock hadn't thought of Victor Trevor for ages. He had been his friend when they had been _eight_!

“Or Greg,” Mycroft mumbled to himself.

“Who?”

Mycroft gave him a disbelieving look. “Greg Lestrade! The man you've been working with for years now!”

“Oh. Never knew his first name. Interesting that _you_ know it…” Sherlock froze. Was he even jealous? Probably he was just getting mad. He had every right to get mad today.

Mycroft sighed. “Nothing to it. I just talked to him a couple of times about you.”

“Yes, because you love to control me! Well, congratulations! You won the first prize! You can control me now forever… God…” Sherlock only realised now how much would change. He would move in with Mycroft, wouldn’t he? If they became crazy for each other, Mycroft wouldn’t want him to live in another part of London with someone else anymore! Who would be the… the… _man_ in their relationship anyway? Both of them had such a strong will. Wouldn’t they fight all the time, soulmates or not? Or would they channel these confrontations into… sexual encounters of the same intensity? Sherlock felt like panicking, fainting and throwing up altogether, his anxiety reaching unknown heights… He bent forward and gagged dryly, his entire body shivering.

And then a warm hand was gently put onto his neck. “Breathe slowly, little brother. I know it's hard. I know it's not what you wanted. I guess you'd much preferred seeing nothing happening to your arm today. I'm sorry I didn’t tell you. I was… I was afraid. I had no idea how to break it to you. I didn’t even dare try to reconcile with you as I was afraid you'd figure it out and be even more hostile for years on end. I should have done better. But I'll do anything to get you out of this unharmed. Perhaps… for us it will be different. Perhaps we'll only have to do it once and then we'll just be… I don't know, friends, or something.”

Sherlock was listening to the soothing voice without a word, his head almost between his knees, slowly calming down. Could that work? Had there ever been soulmates who had executed their bond and then gone on more or less living like before? It sounded like the perfect solution. But of course they still had to go through the sexual procedure…

“I'll never let anything happen to you, Sherlock. No matter how much you've despised me and wished me to hell, that has always been true. I'll keep you safe.”

And Sherlock raised his head and straightened up, and suddenly he wasn't feeling that terrified anymore. He nodded. “Good. That's good. Thanks. And I… didn’t, you know? Despise you. Not really. But I did wish you to hell…” He surprised himself with grinning at his brother.

Mycroft produced a cautious smile before he went on speaking. “We don't have to do anything today, or tomorrow. Let's just… get a bit more… comfortable around each other, what do you think?”

To get acquainted to each other so they could bear coming into each other? _Dear God…_ Knowing his brother was right nevertheless, he nodded. “Yes. Sounds good. Spend some time together every day. Or better every evening, when you come home from work.”

“I'll cut down my schedule quite a lot for the next few days,” Mycroft promised. “Do some work from home, not be available for late meetings. We'll sort it out.”

And somehow Sherlock felt rather… safe right now. The situation reminded him of the old days when he had looked up to his smart big brother. He had always known what to do, how to pass a rainy afternoon, how to talk to older children who found it funny to mock skinny little Sherlock. He had always found a way. And then things had turned sour, and Mycroft had been his enemy more than his brother, the young man with the old eyes who had spoilt all his fun. Had always known everything better, and not in a good way anymore.

Perhaps he would have to try to find more of the old Mycroft back so this could work. And perhaps find more of innocent little Sherlock in himself, too.

“By the way – happy birthday.”

Sherlock looked at him, taken aback. Then he smiled. “Thanks. I almost forgot about it.”

“I don't blame you… So… Doctor Watson has seen your mark?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yeah. And Mrs Hudson, too.”

“Oh. Well… Bet they were over the moon.”

Sherlock caught himself snickering slightly. “Quite. Mummy called afterwards.”

“Oh. Yes. I never… I never really allowed myself to think about how they would feel - our parents.”

“Well, never mind. She's happy about it.”

“She's what?”

Sherlock gave him a wry grin and told him about his conversation with their mother.

Mycroft listened with a stunned expression. “Our mother thinks we're meant for each other,” he said then. “Wow…”

“Yes. Wow…” So far their mother had been right about mostly anything that had happened in their lives, Sherlock realised. Perhaps, just perhaps, she was right again this time? As insane and improbable as it was? _'Your mother knows best,'_ their dovish, devote father had often said. Well, Sherlock could only hope that he'd been right. He wondered what _he_ was thinking about it…

They were silent for quite some time, and then Sherlock cleared his throat. “Care to show me?”

Mycroft gave him a questioning look but then he understood. “Oh. Sure.”

He took off his jacket, and Sherlock saw with surprise that he had some metal rings around his upper arms. He watched his brother slide the left one off, and it was a strangely erotic moment. Probably he was wearing those so his shirt couldn't roll up by itself and expose the soul mark… 

And then Mycroft exposed his arm and Sherlock saw his name emblazoned on pale, freckled skin. He reached out and brushed his fingers over it, and goose bumps broke out on Mycroft's arm. Sherlock was touching him for the first time since Mycroft had pulled him out of the last drug den about five years ago, and for the first time ever since they had grown up without anger and fury. The skin felt soft and nice, and the large letters, forming his very own name, on his arm did a strange thing to Sherlock's heart.

Spontaneously he bent forward and kissed his brother's cheek. Actually it was just a tiny peck, dry lips on freshly shaven skin that smelled of eau de cologne, an expensive one, and his brother's clean skin. Mycroft gasped but then he lightly put his arm around Sherlock's shoulder, and kissed his cheek in return, just in the same innocent way.

“How was that?” he asked then, the look in his blue eyes intense, worried and curious.

“Okay,” Sherlock said after a moment. “Surprisingly okay.” He had never kissed someone. Not since he'd been a little boy. It had hardly been a passionate smooch. But it had been a start.

Mycroft seemed very pleased and they shared a cautious smile before Sherlock cleared his throat and asked, just to say something, “How did you do it? Hide it from us when you showed us your arm?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I… went to an old lady, and she gave me some balm.”

“You mean – a witch?!”

“She called herself a herb woman. But yes. Sort of. It made the name disappear for about two hours. She had it already prepared so I guess quite a few people ask for it.”

 _Did you hope it would disappear forever?_ Sherlock didn’t ask him. This woman might have been able to (temporarily) make the name go away but nobody could make _the fate_ undone. His brother had seen a witch. And he must have done that very quickly. But then, Sherlock and their parents had only seen him in the evening of his thirtieth birthday. And Sherlock recalled how nasty he had been to him. Well, he had always been…

“Did you have lunch already?” Mycroft asked him.

Sherlock shook his head. “I had planned to go out to _Angelo's_ with John before… this happened.” And after it eating anything had been on the very bottom of his priority list. Way behind screaming, hitting his head on the table or just running through the closed window.

“Are you hungry now?”

“Perhaps a bit.”

“I prepared something for us. You stay here and I'll get it.”

Damn… Mycroft was really a far-seeing caretaker, wasn’t he? He couldn’t have known they would reach some sort of consent so quickly; he'd had to consider the possibility that this meeting would end with a huge row. And still he had taken the time to make sure that he would have something to feed Sherlock with if he miraculously decided to calm down and be on the right side of reasonable.

And when they were eating the cottage cheese sandwiches with cucumber Mycroft had made for them, and talking about their childhood a bit and about his job and Mycroft's, all very civilised albeit cautious and a bit stiff, Sherlock thought for the first time that his fate could have really been much worse.


	3. An Improvised Birthday Party

“Hey, how are you?”

Sherlock hung up his coat. “Okay. I think.”

John huffed. “Tell me! How did it go?”

Sherlock walked into their living room and dropped into his armchair. “He's a reasonable man, John. We'll sort it out.” They would, wouldn’t they? For a moment an image of a gravestone flickered through Sherlock's mind, bearing both of their names and the word 'Soulmates' in large letters beneath them… He shook it off as fast as he could.

“Did you… do anything?”

“Yes, John. My brother bent me over his home office desk and fucked me, straight away!”

The doctor sighed. “No, I know it couldn’t have been like this but…”

“I kissed him. On the cheek! And so did he. And… before I left, we did that again.” They had decided to meet later for dinner. They had time. Well, they had five days… So Sherlock would try to calm down a bit more and Mycroft would do some work. He'd had seven years to calm down after all… It was hard to not get bitchy about that…

“And? How was it?”

“I don't know. It was a kiss on the cheek. Nothing… sexual.” No tongue and spit and breath. He swallowed.

“But can you imagine doing it?”

“I will have to, if I can imagine it or not!” Sherlock needed a break now. This was a lot to process, and yet he wanted to forget it for now.

“Ah, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson scurried into the room. “How was it?”

Sherlock sighed. “Ask John!” She looked a bit hurt and he felt guilty. “Sorry…”

“No, _I'm_ sorry, my boy. I know this was a shock for you. If you need any kind of advice, you can always come to me.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. How was it for you? Finding your soulmate?” He wondered where this question had come from. He didn’t care about other people's love life, especially not when it had ended forty years ago… Well, that was not quite true; she had been married a second time after all. With a nasty drug lord and killer… But he hadn't been her soulmate.

She sat down on the couch and smiled. “It was lovely. We met and it was love at first sight. We didn’t need five days to get bonded. Actually we hardly needed more than five minutes… And the four years we had were a dream…”

He felt sorry for her. Losing your soulmate at such an early age must have been horrible.

There was no rule for how long soulmates stayed together. It was common belief that they found each other back in an afterlife and were happy together forever, but nobody had come back to report if this was true… And the people who claimed to have been with their soulmate for countless lives before? Where was the proof?

He wondered how long he and Mycroft would be together, if they ever got there. And if they fucked it up – would they be united then after their deaths? Sitting on cloud nine like all the others who hadn't managed to bond with their soulmate, their astral hands linked with each other while angels were playing on their harps? But Sherlock didn’t believe that. After his death he would be rotting in his grave and nothing else. But Mycroft would at least be rotting next to him…

“It must have been very hard to lose him so soon,” he heard John speak out his thoughts.

The old lady nodded. “It was. Sometimes it still is. You know I fell for Mr Hudson many years later, and he turned out to be quite ghastly… I'll be forever grateful that you helped me get rid of him, Sherlock.”

“But you've kept his name,” John mumbled.

She shrugged. “Changing all your documents is so annoying and expensive, dear.”

“Always the pragmatic one, huh?”

She giggled, and Sherlock grinned. It was nice to be around them. Sometimes they wrecked his last nerve but they were good people. His soulmate was a good man too, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he lucky? He caught himself kneading his fingers quite painfully.

When the doorbell rang, he didn’t know whether to expect an uninvited non-birthday-party guest or a client. Thankfully, it was the latter. Less thankfully, it was yet another soulmate case…

*****

“Man, this was complicated… and pretty hopeless.” John filled their mugs with tea.

Sherlock nodded darkly. Perhaps he was a tad more sensitive now that this fate had struck him, too, but he felt some sympathy with this woman. “Sucks to have only half an arm…”

“Yes! Nasty accident! But I wonder what she thought we could do for her.”

Sherlock wondered about that, too. The name had been cut off, like the arm had been years ago. 'Sam'. Could have meant anything from Samuel to Samantha. Perhaps Samara. Possibly Samira. What about just 'Sam'?

The client had sworn that she was only into women but that didn’t help that much. They had gone through all the people she knew even though of course she had done that before. Sherlock had even sort of hypnotized her to find the soulmate in her memory; in the hope she had perhaps met this person once and had forgotten about it. With no result, unfortunately. She only knew a guy named Samson, who was over eighty and rather gaga, but he had shown her his arm after finally getting what she wanted a day ago, and the name had been hardly readable anymore after countless sunburns, but it had definitely not been _'Lilian'_.

“I don't see a good ending for her,” Sherlock said, grumpy that he had not been able to solve the case. Shame that the soul-name stubbornly appeared on the left arm, if it was still existent or not, obviously just writing itself on into the air when there wasn't enough space… She had a totally acceptable right arm after all. But that wouldn’t save her. And honestly, even if the name had been complete – the hopes that she would find someone named 'Samantha' on this wide world would have been pretty slim, even though 'Lilian' was not such a common name. He had suggested trying it on every known soulmate-matching-side nonetheless, but the odds were not good. And she had only three days left… Why had she not got an artificial arm after her accident? What was wrong with these people? Then again - he didn't know if the soul-name-writing didn't equally stubbornly stick to writing on _skin_ … Not that it mattered for this lost case...

“Nah, me neither. Damn. You shouldn't have to put up with this, least of all today.”

“Because you don't see a good ending for me either?”

John paled. “I didn’t say that! I'm sure you and your brother… will be fine.”

Sherlock's legs got shaky again all at once. “He's not that bad, John. But… I don't see me doing this. With him. With anyone.” He had always thought he was asexual. He just wasn’t interested in this sex-stuff. It was ghastly! How could he have thought this would work?! He tried to calm down but it took all his willpower not to race through the flat to get rid of this tension and… fear.

“Do you… Have you ever…” John broke off, and his ear tips were pink.

“You know, you can just spit it out. You're no blushing virgin in opposite to me, and it's not as if I didn’t have to face this subject anyway.”

“Sorry, yes. Never thought we'd talk about… sex.”

John was lucky. He could sleep around with everybody he wanted to without ever having to bother about this soulmate crap… As long as whom he picked for his adventures was nobody with a jealous soulmate, that is. “Don't tell me you've got a problem with that, Mr Womanizer!”

“Nah, but… Anyway. Do you ever… do it… with yourself?”

 _Oh._ That was really a touchy subject. So to speak… But not any touchier than talking about possible sex with his brother! “I do. Sometimes. When I'm very bored and there is no case to solve and it's too late to go to St. Bart's or it's Molly's day off and nobody can give me some eyeballs and stuff…”

John nodded. “So basically in every night you can't sleep and have nothing to do… I never hear you.”

“Can't say the same about you…”

“Ouch.” John gave him a sheepish grin. “But it means that you can, you know, get it up and… Do you come?”

“John!”

“What? It's a very legitimate question under the circumstances. And I'm a doctor.”

Sherlock shrugged. He was right. “Yes. It's totally functional. But that doesn’t mean that I can do it with someone else. I've never wanted to do that.” He had been so tough towards Mycroft, telling him that he would go along with it as the alternative was simply unacceptable. But it was still impossible to imagine.

“But the chances are still better than if you had no experience at all or if it didn’t work.”

“I'd be wanking full time for the next few days if I hadn't done it, believe me.”

They shared a look and then they both burst out laughing even though the situation wasn't exactly funny but rather scary. But also very absurd…

The doorbell interrupted their chat. Sherlock sighed. “Please, no more unsolvable soulmate cases.”

But this time it wasn’t a client. It was Molly Hooper.

*****

“We must have a bottle of champagne somewhere, don't we? That this Mrs Johannsen gave us?” John asked while Molly sat down on the couch. “It's your birthday after all and now that we have a guest… Two guests,” he added with a fond look at Mrs Hudson, who had come upstairs right after the pathologist.

Sherlock sighed. He didn’t want to have guests. But now that Molly was there (as Mrs Hudson was hardly a guest; she was a fixture)… Molly was sheepishly smiling and had handed him a nicely wrapped book about inner organs as a present, which would be pretty useful at least. “Yes, it's over there.” He gestured at a crammed cabinet to the left.

“So, um… You've got a lot to celebrate?” Molly wiggled nervously on her chair and he was close to asking her if she was having an itch down there.

John returned with four glasses and the bottle. “We do indeed. You can as well tell her, Sherlock.” He provided everybody with champagne. It had been waiting for its use for so long that it was hardly fizzing anymore.

Her already big eyes grew even wider. “You've got it?”

Before Sherlock could even answer, John yelled, “Yep, and you'll never guess who! It starts with an 'M'!”

Mrs Hudson sighed, Sherlock rolled his eyes and Molly flushed, her eyes brightening up. The pathologist was two years younger than him so she didn’t have hers, and right now she had drawn a very wrong conclusion about what it was going to show…

John realised his mistake at once. “Oh, no, sorry. It doesn’t say 'Molly'.” He handed her a glass and she took it with shivering fingers, her now sad eyes fixed on Sherlock.

Sherlock cast the doctor a dark look and then he rolled up his sleeve once more. It was easier than to explain it…

If possible, Molly's eyes got bigger yet. “But… That's…”

“…my brother, yes,” Sherlock interrupted her stammering. He grabbed his filled glass. “Cheers!”

*****

Their unplanned little party took its expected course. Molly was sulking, seemingly close to crying, Mrs Hudson got tipsy after one glass and tried to console the younger woman by telling her how awful her second marriage had been, Sherlock downed two glasses of the sour champagne and wished they would all just leave, and John was busy with his phone, probably texting another boring crush.

He wished for a client to show up or even better, Lestrade, but when the inspector did indeed come along, he didn’t come with a case.

“Hey, Sherlock. John texted me it's your birthday.”

Sherlock sighed and glowered at John. He didn’t approve of people knowing when his birthday was. Especially not this one. “Did he also text you what I got as a gift?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Yes. How are you feeling about it?” He sat down on the couch, with quite some space between him and Molly so he could talk to Sherlock without shouting.

“Splendid.” Sherlock huffed. “I really thought I'd get spared.”

Lestrade nodded. “Many people do I guess. Except for the hopeless romantics. Even though of course you can have romance without this soulmate stuff. Or not have it with it…” he quietly added, perhaps mostly to himself.

Sherlock knew all too well that his marriage was not exactly happy, and he and his wife Lee _were_ soulmates; they had never spoken about it but Sherlock had seen the name on the man's arm more than once. Being soulmates didn’t necessarily mean that people were happy together. They were in the beginning, mostly. And many of them stayed happy as far as Sherlock knew.

And what didn’t change was that bonded soulmates couldn’t separate for good. They might try but they were drawn back to the other one eventually until one of them bit the dust. So basically it meant that soulmates could fight and hurt one another but they had the pleasure of doing it forever because they couldn’t get rid of each other, no matter how much they drove each other crazy. If _that_ wasn't something to look forward to…

“In most cases it works out just fine,” Lestrade said, having obviously sensed (or deduced?!) Sherlock's thoughts. “Most people are very happy with their soulmates.”

“You think we're going to be? Me and the brother I never got along with?” It wasn't quite true though; a long time ago they had got along very well after all. But then he had been a child!

“You met him after finding out?”

“Yeah. Yelled at him for not telling me… But then it was pretty good.”

“See. I can imagine you were upset about that. But it can't have been easy for him either, knowing this for so long and not daring to talk to you about it.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Yes, yes, I was a brat towards him. God, we'll be at each other's throats, constantly! Forever!” The thought made him feel shaky again.

“You can't know that. Remember that the bonding… _ceremony_ will change your feelings. A lot of people have never met their soulmate beforehand. You know him at least. Pretty well.”

“Do I? We've been living separate lives for ages, Lestrade. I knew him when he was a chubby kid and I a little boy. Now he's a powerful man with no humour or scruples and I'm the world's only consulting detective, a former drug user and in his eyes the most irresponsible and childish person alive.”

“I don't think he sees you that way. And for everybody else he might be the cold politician who looks down on everybody but I do know he's always cared a lot for you. We've met at a few hospital beds after all… You should have seen the worry in his eyes. And the…” He stopped, biting his lip.

“The what?” Sherlock bent forward on his chair.

“The love, Sherlock. He's always loved you. It was hard to miss. And since I've known him, if you want to call it that, he's known you're his soulmate. He's how many years older than you?”

“Seven. Almost.” Sherlock's head was spinning. Was that true? Did Mycroft already love him in a romantic way? Because the tone in which Lestrade had said it had indicated he wasn’t talking about the love of one sibling for the other one. How could he have missed that if even Lestrade had seen it?! But it had been in times of worry then, and yes, Sherlock had never doubted that Mycroft had brotherly feelings for him. He had admonished and reprimanded him and said rather nasty things (in his totally polite but even more provoking way) but in the end he had always been there when Sherlock had needed him. Not that Sherlock had ever thanked him. Or even really acknowledged his efforts. But had Mycroft shown under such dire circumstances more of his feelings than Sherlock, who had probably been unconscious or filled up with painkillers then, had ever seen?

Lestrade was watching him closely. “I never thought about that before, took it for the love of a sibling, but now that this happened and considering he's known it for so many years… I probably shouldn't gossip about that as it's not my business of course but since you are in such a delicate situation now… When I recall some of these moments now, I think he's been in love with you for a very long time.”

And that explained a lot. And Sherlock should have realised it when they had been together earlier. Why else would Mycroft agree to getting to know each other better to be able to have sex so willingly? Sure, he'd had lots of time to come to terms with it but hadn't he really appeared as if it wasn't a chore for him? At all? He had just been afraid Sherlock could throw it in his face and sentence them both to death.

In a way it was another shock to get over – imagining that his older brother had lusted for him, maybe even long before he had received Sherlock's name on his arm! But in fact it was a comfort. And a big relief. Mycroft wouldn’t back away from making love to him. He would enjoy it… At least if Sherlock didn’t behave like he usually did. But of course he couldn’t afford doing that anyway so bye-bye weight jokes and other mockery.

All in all, this whole soulmate business seemed to have become decidedly easier. Well, apart from the rotten _sex_ … But if one of them found that easy to do, it might already be a big help.

“Thank you,” he said. “I'm glad you told me.”

“You don't have to tell him that I mentioned it…”

Sherlock grinned. “Afraid he could let you disappear?”

“He certainly has the power to do it.”

“He has the power to do basically everything… But he won't. I guess he's pretty happy you're having my back, too.”

Greg smiled. “I've always had, and I'll always will. Just as he does.”

“And me.”

Sherlock looked up and saw John looking down at him with a serious face.

“Me too!” chirped Mrs Hudson, and then Molly nodded, her eyes still sad but her face determined.

“Me too, Sherlock. I hope you'll get very happy. With him.”

It must have almost killed her to say it, but Sherlock knew she meant it. “Thank you. Thank you, all of you. And John – can you please go and get some better champagne?”

John raised his eyebrows. “You want to appear at your brother's doorstep pissed and giggly?”

“I haven't been giggly in my entire life! And you do recall I've done drugs? I can have another glass of champagne without puking onto my brother's feet!”

And after a moment of silence, everybody started to laugh, and Sherlock was suddenly stupidly happy. He knew it would still be a challenge, but for the first time he was almost convinced everything would be fine. It would have to be, didn't it? Destiny couldn’t be so cruel?!


	4. A Bumpy Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets more and more anxious, and - a name from the past.

“What is this?”

Sherlock gave his brother a wry smile. “It's a piece of cake. It's good.” John had bought the cake along with the champagne, and the rest of their strange little party had been surprisingly nice.

“You've brought me… cake?” Mycroft took the small package so gingerly as if it could explode in his hands.

Sherlock didn’t really blame him. “Yeah. To show you, you know… that things _are_ very different now.” He slipped out of his coat and hung it up.

Mycroft pondered about this statement for a moment. “So you won't say anymore that I'm grossly fat and should better leave out a meal or two every day?” There was a smirk in his eyes that Sherlock found strangely promising.

“I've never been _that_ bad,” he protested though. “And yeah… I know it was kind of silly. You're in good shape. For a man who sits around all day…”

It was Mycroft's turn to smile wryly. “I do have a treadmill. And I use it!”

Sherlock winced a little at the defensive tone of the last sentence. “I get it. I'm a horrible brat. And now I'm your soulmate. Aren't you lucky?” He was scrutinising his brother while he was speaking, and he saw a flash in Mycroft's eyes at the question. A flash of sentiment (- the ghastly word). Of affection. Of _'Yes-I-do-think-I-am'_. And he knew Lestrade had been right. Mycroft loved him.

He cleared his throat. “Well, will we stand around in your certainly lovely hallway for the rest of this evening or…?”

“Oh, sorry. I've made dinner. I hope you can settle for salmon in Roquefort sauce and pasta.”

“You can cook? I mean… Wow.”

“You have doubted that? You think I'm eating all day and then it surprises you that I can actually prepare those meals?”

The amusement in his brother's blue eyes was something Sherlock could really get used to. Even if it was at his expense and terribly annoying. But in a surprisingly nice way…

“Well, if you put it like this… So… Will you…” He broke off and Mycroft gave him an expectant look.

“You know you can ask me anything, Sherlock. We're in this together even though you haven't exactly asked for it so being honest and open with each other will be required I suppose.”

 _Did **you** ask for it? _Sherlock didn’t speak it out. Instead he nodded. “I do see that. Yes. But it was a silly question. You're not a housewife. You won't cook for us pretty often.”

Mycroft was visibly stunned. “So you… could imagine moving in with me?”

Sherlock shrugged. “If they're right about this… _magic moment_ when we…” He cleared his throat. “At least we'll meet pretty often I guess. Even if we're really so special with all this _'sentiment is a chemical defect'_ \- and _'caring is not an advantage'_ stuff… it will affect us in some way.” And he supposed it would be somewhere in the range of _'being nice to each other and liking each other way better than before'_ and _'constantly ripping each other's clothes off and copulate even when the Queen is around'_.

Mycroft swallowed. “I guess it was rather optimistic to think that we can just be a sort of friends with benefits afterwards anyway. We might end up like all the other soulmates.”

So basically at the scary end of the range. “Crazy in love and craving for sex all the time?” It was such a foreign concept for Sherlock. Well, of course it also was for Mycroft. Standing there, still in the hallway of his brother's huge house, both feeling rather awkward and more than a tad helpless, it seemed impossible that this soulmate passion could ever overwhelm them. And did Mycroft really think it was a bad thing if that happened indeed? Or did he rather think that was _Sherlock's_ opinion? One thorough look at his brother's eyes was enough to answer this question. Mycroft _craved_ for it… And Sherlock felt trapped and excited and horrified and weird and new and overwhelmed and…

“Just like that,” Mycroft interrupted his pondering, watching him closely. “It must terrify you.”

“Um. Yeah. Just like you.”

“Sure.” Mycroft gave a rather unconvincing nod.

Had his brother always lied so badly? Or was Sherlock now just able to see through his masks of his _[gulp]_ soulmate? In any way Mycroft wasn’t terrified at all by the prospect of being insatiable lovers. Sherlock was. In a way. Not quite as much as before maybe. Still… Would it hurt? Would Mycroft turn him into his… wife? Would he want to top Sherlock all the time? They would need tons of lubricant! He wouldn’t be able to sit down – ever again… What if Mycroft had some more unusual kinks? Sherlock almost fainted when some keywords wafted through his mind, immediately beaten down by imaginary fists. No. Mycroft wouldn’t want stuff like this… Or perhaps he would and Sherlock would fall for him so madly that he would _love_ to drink his…

“Sherlock…”

He was hearing his brother's voice through some sort of fog.

“Sherlock, come, let's get you to a chair.” Mycroft sounded seriously concerned.

And then his brother's arm was wrapped around his waist and Sherlock's knees got even weaker at the touch that should only stabilise him and he wondered what would happen if Mycroft touched him really intimately.

Well, he would for sure find out…

*****

At first it was fine. Mycroft had laid the table in the dining room very nicely (and Sherlock wondered if he ever entertained any guests here, and he doubted it very much) and served green salad with a very delicious dressing, and he asked Sherlock about his day and it was very civilised and nice. But Sherlock could feel some tension in his neck that wouldn’t go away. And then there came the main meal, as tasty as the salad, and he started to sweat even though the temperature in the room was just fine.

“This is pretty good!” Sherlock intended to say, but he had his mouth full with fish and _tagliatelle_ so it came rather out as 'tshiprgigd'. Usually he did have manners. Usually he didn’t speak with his mouth full but it just gurgled out of him, probably because it was still so awkward and Mycroft cooking for him and glancing at him from time to time in such a kind way was simply astonishing and…

In any way Mycroft looked appalled now. His eyebrows almost hit his hairline and the hand that had been on his way to his mouth with a fork with a small bit of fish stopped mid-air. “Sorry?”

And Sherlock hastily swallowed and tried to apologise and of course he choked on the food and started to cough and then he had to laugh and tears shot out his eyes while he went on swallowing the fish and next thing he knew, he was crying and falling off his chair, curling up into a ball on the thick carpet of Mycroft's dining room floor.

And then Mycroft was there, kneeling next to him, his large hand on Sherlock's forehead, the other one rubbing his back. “It's all right, brother, calm down, it's all good, breathe. Spit it out.”

But Sherlock, embarrassed to the core, managed to finally get everything down and looked up to him, wiping his mouth. “Sorry…”

Mycroft smiled at him and the softness in his eyes almost made Sherlock cry again. To his relief, Mycroft didn’t say anything but helped him to sit up on the floor and handed him his glass – water, not wine. Sherlock had figured that after the champagne, he didn’t need any more alcohol tonight. Right now he would have preferred whiskey, but he gratefully sipped at the cold fluid. He was more than aware of Mycroft's arm stabilising him once more and for a moment, he allowed himself to slump in his embrace. He took in his brother's appealing scent - expensive eau de cologne, razor foam and his own unique flavour - and he shuddered. He wanted to taste his skin, he wanted to run away, he wanted them to just get it over with, he wanted… He closed his eyes, and Mycroft's grip around him tightened.

“It's all fine, Sherlock. You're having a panic attack but you will be fine.”

“I don't have such things!” Sherlock protested. But in fact it had been almost like this when he had been with Mycroft earlier. And then again when they had been standing at the door. It had just gotten worse without any particular reason and out of nowhere, just because of having dinner together…

“It's not exactly a normal situation. It was a very hard day.” To Sherlock's surprise, he didn’t only sound caring and understanding, which would have been remarkable enough. He sounded sad.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. For basically everybody else it was a joy to find their soulmate. Not for the people who had no idea who it actually was, who had to fear for their lives if they didn’t find him or her quickly enough. Sherlock remembered having read about a case when a woman had gotten the name of her soulmate wrong, had thought she was called 'Marianna' and a woman with this name had her own name, Kelly, written on her arm, and they had been happy to have found each other online and to be able to meet quickly as they both lived in Dublin. But it had turned out that her actual soulmate's name was 'Marianha' and lived in the Republic of the Congo. Well, she had never found that out because she had been dead, just like her true soulmate; their families had figured it out when it had been over, and Sherlock guessed they had all cursed the bloody soulmate-writing…

In any way not everybody was on the bright side of this soulmate matter but what reason to despair did _he_ actually have? He had known his soulmate from the day he'd been born. He was good-looking and smart, cared for him a lot and was absolutely not appalling in any way. He was just his brother, and Sherlock didn’t do sex. He had no idea how this should work.

He recalled how hopeful and positive he had been after talking to Lestrade just about two hours ago. Now it seemed again as if he was doomed… And he was hurting Mycroft with it. Mycroft, who had been in love with him for God knew how long…

And before he could think, he did what he had not wanted to do. He asked, “For how long have you loved me already?” Mycroft froze and Sherlock cursed himself. Did he have to make everything even more complicated? What did it even matter how long? “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Forget the stupid question.”

But Mycroft shook his head, looking resigned but not offended. “It's no problem. Just out of curiosity – did you deduce it?”

“No. Lestrade said he had seen you looking at me when I was hospitalised. More than once.” He assumed Mycroft would not have Lestrade deported to a very life-hostile destination…

And his brother didn’t look angry when he answered. “Oh, I see. Well, it's hard to hide your feelings when the one you love has managed _again_ to almost let himself be killed…”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Sherlock muttered.

“No. But still you ended up looking more dead than alive. Anyway… Shall we get up first?”

Sherlock nodded and let himself be pulled up and guided back to his chair. The rest of his food had become cold and he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat it anymore. Mycroft seemed to sense his thoughts and moved the plates away to the side of the table.

He took a sip from his wine. “You were seventeen,” he said then, in a calm and sober tone. “I was back home for my summer holidays and we spent two weeks together. Well, together might not be the right word. You mostly ignored me, and when we communicated, it was rather… hostile…”

Sherlock looked down on the table, nodding. He knew very well how he had behaved. This summer, the summer before, the summer after, ever since… He had been ghastly to Mycroft. “And still you…”

“Yes. I realised it after a little more than a week. My look was glued to your mouth when you spoke. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from your neck when you turned and looked away. I thought how sharp your cheekbones were when you walked by. I saw how muscular your legs had become from swimming and cycling. I thought how impressive your deep voice was. I smiled when you, very rarely, laughed about something. And then I caught myself staring at your bottom when you bent over to pick something up and I knew I was lost.”

“I never got it,” Sherlock mumbled. “How could I not deduce it?!”

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. “You never really looked at me anymore, only to snort at me or give a snarky reply. You didn’t… see me.”

“You must be the worst masochist on earth if you still fell in love with me…”

Mycroft laughed and Sherlock thought that this sound, so rarely heard, was something he definitely liked. “Perhaps I was. And I didn’t see what it meant. You're my soulmate, Sherlock. Of course I loved you.”

Sherlock felt worse than ever. “But I…” He didn’t finish the sentence but he didn’t have to.

Mycroft nodded. “I know. You don't feel for people like this. For nobody. Well, that's not quite right. You do love your Doctor Watson.” He couldn’t quite hide the bitterness in his voice.

“Not like this!”

“True. And your feelings for me.. they will change. As soon as we…”

“But what if not? What if I can't?”

“Don't put so much pressure on yourself, little brother. It's only the first day. And the real countdown starts only tomorrow. I'm sorry you have to go through this. I know I'm not like you. Not… beautiful and graceful and… desirable.”

“There is nothing wrong with you, Mycroft!” How could he think Sherlock was in such a state because he found him repelling?! He was far from it! Mycroft was tall and handsome and everybody should have been happy to have him as their soulmate. Sherlock was so well aware that it could have been much, much worse. “It's not that,” he said quietly. “I think I'm just shit-scared…”

“Of me? Of what we'll have to do?”

“Not of you. But I have never… It's so…”

Mycroft's face fell. “I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I should have told you about it right away or at least a year ago so you could have made some experiences. I was so selfish.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t want me to have sex with someone else…”

Mycroft paled. “I didn’t mean that! I just meant I was avoiding a confrontation with you.”

But Sherlock could see that he was right. Mycroft had, at least partly, not told him so Sherlock wouldn’t have a reason to get acquainted to having sex, if it had been a conscious decision or not. Sherlock had always been convinced he would never get the mark after all.

He saw Mycroft's desperate face and something in him softened and calmed down. “It's okay, Mycroft. I guess it's pretty natural to not want your soulmate getting down and dirty with someone else.”

“It's unforgivable… And I never even realised it.” Mycroft sounded absolutely shattered.

Sherlock smiled. “I guess that does balance the guilt between us a bit. I was a brat and you were possessive and egoistic. But whom do I want to fool – I wouldn’t have done anything with anyone even if you had told me. I never wanted it.”

Mycroft's eyes were wet when his gaze met Sherlock's. “I'm sorry you'll have to do it with me.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Don't be. It's fate. And destiny thinks we're meant to be together. Not even _I_ can argue with destiny. Shall we… maybe get a bit more comfortable? I don't mean… sex… just…”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course. Let's go over to the living room. You can have a nap if you want. You can even stay here tonight, if you feel like it. I have two guest rooms.”

“I think… I will go home in a while.” It would have been too soon. Even too soon to sleep under the same roof.

“As you wish.” Mycroft didn’t look offended. He may have been selfish before but he certainly wasn't now. He wanted to make this whole affair as easy as possible for Sherlock. Even though it wasn’t easy either way…

Sherlock had been driven by logic and reason all his life, well, apart from the drugs. But now he was acting on instinct, forced by fate. He knew he had to get closer to Mycroft now, and then process it in the safety of his own flat overnight, maybe talk to John or Mrs Hudson about it.

Mycroft didn’t put his arm around him when they left the room, but Sherlock slightly touched his hand, and his brother smiled at him, and Sherlock felt better when he smiled back. But he knew they had a long way ahead of them and very little time and they should better start it now.

***** 

“Would you like me to switch it on?” Mycroft gestured at the television. They had sat down on the large couch, close to each other but not quite touching. The room was only dimly lit, which was bringing a rather intimate atmosphere that Sherlock found surprisingly convenient.

Sherlock shook his head. “Please don't. I bet we would end up zapping from a documentary about the most hilarious deaths of soulmates with one of them living on the Mars and one in a convent to a comedy film about soulmates with eighteen children as they can't stop fucking…”

Mycroft laughed so loudly that it echoed from the generous room, and Sherlock joined in, and he calmed down only slightly when Mycroft gently put his arm around his shoulder, closing the distance between them.

“Never thought you could be so funny, little brother,” he said with a big smile on his face.

“Never thought you'd ever smile at me like this,” blubbered out of Sherlock's mouth, and the look in his brother's eyes got even more affectionate.

Sherlock saw it coming, and instead of backing away, he moved forward and even sighed when Mycroft soft, warm lips met his own. It was a chaste kiss and Mycroft pulled away immediately, checking on him if he was okay with it.

And he was. It felt nice. Weird and foreign but nice. “Again,” he mumbled, and Mycroft smiled, looking happy.

And then Sherlock's phone moaned and Mycroft pulled away with wide eyes.

Sherlock could have thrown his phone against the wall and let his head follow. Of course… Irene Adler would recall his birthday… Why had he told her again!? And Mycroft with the perfect memory had not forgotten the tone he had heard in Baker Street the day he had told Sherlock to keep away from her… Sherlock had never doubted he knew from whom the texts had been coming…

“She's alive,” Mycroft spat out. “I should have known.” His voice was as hard as his expression. Gone were the affection and the tenderness.

And Sherlock couldn’t have it. “Yes. I saved her life. And after that I never saw her again! We just… talked and then she went her way, to Las Vegas to be precise, and I came back. I did nothing with her and not because she wouldn’t have wanted it!”

Mycroft wasn’t even listening. “I bet you'd have preferred if _her_ name had appeared…”

“No! As a matter of fact I wouldn’t! It was also John's first idea.” It had happened with John the same way – realising that Irene had faked her death a second time thanks to this sodding tone. The text had come when they had been with a client and John had laughed and said he had known Sherlock liked her and Sherlock had told him to shut up, and John had brought up his middle name for a baby name again and Sherlock had told him to hold his tongue if he wanted to keep it, and the client had looked from one to the other as if she was watching a tennis match and they had started shouting at each other and almost ended up in a fight – and then realised the client had left in the meantime… “But you're both wrong! I never wanted anything from her. She was a puzzle, a good one, but that's it.”

“I was stupid to not see how much you two clicked, and even though you gave her secret away…”

“Mycroft! _You_ are my soulmate, not Irene!” Sherlock yelled. “And I do _not_ wish it was different! Do you get this in your stubborn head now?!”

Mycroft gaped at him for a moment. Then he closed his mouth and nodded. “It's not as if you had a choice,” he mumbled then, and Sherlock put his arm around his shoulder.

“I'm gay, brother mine. It could have never been a woman. Not even The Woman. And… if it has to be someone, I'm glad it's you.” He realised how that sounded and sighed. “I don't mean it that way. Not quite. It's just… so fucking difficult.” And they both knew he would have been happier right now if his arm had stayed blank.

To his relief Mycroft smiled. “I know that. I know you're struggling a lot. Sorry for… overreacting.”

“That will happen more than once I suppose. Not only for you.” Not long ago Sherlock had been a sobbing bundle on the floor… “We're forced to deal with emotions. That can't go down well…” But of course it had to; otherwise emotions were the last thing they had to think about. Quite literally… “Where were we?”

“You're sure?”

“Yes. Kiss me, brother.”

And he did, and this time Sherlock dared open his mouth to let Mycroft's tongue in, and it was weird and shocking to taste his brother like this, to feel a wet intruder pushing against his inexperienced tongue, but it wasn’t that bad. Mycroft's arm that had sneaked around his waist didn’t feel so bad either.

They kissed, probingly, experimentally, carefully until Mycroft pulled back. “Shall we share the cake now?”

Sherlock smiled. “I brought an extra big piece.”

“Well, I will be back in a little while.”

“Having to go for little tigers, too?” Sherlock chuckled and Mycroft looked a bit confused before he grinned.

“Vulgar! But true…”

Sherlock leaned back on the couch. “Take your time.”

After brushing a peck onto his cheek, Mycroft disappeared, and Sherlock took out his phone and looked up Irene's text.

_Happy birthday, Mr Detective. It's the one, right? Tell me… xxx I_

And Sherlock realised that she had hoped he would receive her name. She also was younger than him. He shook his head and answered.

_Thanks. It is. And I got a Mycroft. SH_

It took her a full minute to reply.

_My God! And… You think you can do that? xxx I_

_I'm with him now. Yes. We will do it. SH_

If he didn’t fuck it up or break his neck the next time he fell off his chair…

_Wow. Congratulations? xxx I_

Sherlock could imagine her face now.

_I do think so. We just kissed and it was great. SH_

_Well then. Good luck. And goodbye. xxx I_

_Ditto. SH_

Sherlock knew he would never hear from her again. Just in case he finally changed the tone of her texts like he should have done a long time ago before he stored his phone.

And when Mycroft came back with the cake, two plates and two forks, he greeted him with a smile, and seeing Mycroft return it made his heart do an unexpected little twist that he liked very much.

And they ate their cake and Mycroft rolled his eyes in pleasure quite funnily at the taste, and then they kissed some more, and Mycroft tasted of chocolate and warmth and attractive man, and Sherlock caught himself enjoying it quite a lot, and so they continued doing it until it was time for him to go, and the anxiety didn’t jump on him again.


	5. Friends And Careful Attempts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have another chapter as it is Sunday :) Thanks to everyone who is still reading this slooooow burn :)

“Oho!” The doctor was leaning against the doorframe of the open living room door and was grinning most indecently.

Sherlock, who had just slipped into 221B, rolled his eyes. “What's that supposed to mean? Is it Christmas again?”

John grinned. “Nah. I was referring to your lips. Big brother's a good kisser, huh?”

Sherlock froze and stopped unbuttoning his coat. “Asking because you want to have a go yourself?” He realised that this had been only half a joke. Was something changing already, just by getting the mark and being with Mycroft for a few hours? He had already felt jealous because of Lestrade – and now John of all people? Straight John who had one girlfriend after the other… And if he was irrationally jealous already before bonding with Mycroft, how bad would it be afterwards? Or was it just happening in this phase of insecurity, lasting only until the so-called ceremony aka first hot sex took place? He hadn't read anything about that particular curse. Well, perhaps it was a Holmes brothers' thing then…

John was taken aback and shook his head unwillingly. “Um, no. Neither of you, before that's your next question. But it's hard to miss your lips.” John pointed at his face. “They were pretty plush before but now they're all swollen and sore…”

“Oh.” Sherlock reached up and tapped against his mouth. Yeah. His lips did feel thicker than usual and they burnt a bit.

“Wait until he had a go with your cock,” John chuckled, and Sherlock threw the scarf he had just taken off at him. John laughed like mad but when he had calmed down - Sherlock had hung up his coat in the meantime - his expression grew serious. “I guess you're going to move out then. When it's done.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It can be. But I'll still be here during the day to solve cases. It's our address. We're the Baker Street Detectives. We can't do it anywhere else!” 221B Baker Street was a famous address now for sure. It was a symbol for his cleverness and capability. He wouldn’t give that up.

John seemed relieved. “That's good. I mean, I do earn enough money in the clinic for paying the rent now but…”

Sherlock shook his head. “I'll still pay my part.” Sherlock had a monthly income from a trust his grandmother had bequeathed him. So did Mycroft, even though he hardly needed it. And Sherlock did take money for his cases under certain circumstances, for example if the client was indecently wealthy or/and extremely obnoxious. He never took money from the police or poor people. He accepted biscuits as payment though. Or cheap champagne… He was the Robin Hood of crime-solving, he mused while he and the doctor sat down in their armchairs. “Nothing will change for us, John. It's not as if we had spent the nights together in the same room…”

His flatmate grinned. “But nobody will scream for tea and toast in the morning then. Or run through the flat in nothing but a sheet. Or a towel… I guess I've seen more of you than Mycroft has, huh, except for that memorable bedsheet incident in the Palace?”

“Yeah. That was fun…”

“And he looked at your arse, when I think about it…”

Sherlock sighed. He wished John would have mentioned that before… But that did not really matter now. “He did see much more long before. As a child I ran around naked all summer…”

John smiled. “How was that? You and him, back then?”

Sherlock sighed, in his mind flashes of bedtime stories being read to him and chubby fingers who provided him with sunscreen or cold towels if it was too late for that already as he had stayed out for too long when Mycroft had been at school. “He was a really good big brother. I tended to forget that over the past… decades… But he was really pretty great. He still is…”

“You're getting used to the soulmate-thing?”

“Well… It's difficult. Still. But at least it doesn’t seem to be impossible anymore.” And then he told John about the Irene-text and John cursed a bit and they laughed together about the absurdity of this all before Sherlock told him he'd go to bed. He definitely needed his rest. Needed to contemplate all that had happened so far with his brother and all that was lying ahead of him.

This was the most important time of his life. He had to deal with it, and had to do it well. Otherwise these would be the last few days of his existence and that could absolutely not happen. Not for him and not for his brother. They had the other one's life in their hands, Sherlock realised. If just one of them fucked it up, they would both be thoroughly… fucked, and to avoid that, they had to, well, fuck. Mycroft would be appalled by his choice of words but that's what it was about, ultimately.

But he trusted Mycroft to bring them through this. Big brother had always known what to do. Big brother loved him. And considering his unjustified jealousy and the fact that he had definitely liked kissing him in a very not brotherly way, he obviously started to love him too, as impossible as this had seemed only hours ago. Perhaps there was some serious magic working with that whole soulmate-affair after all. There was probably a reason why people where so fascinated by it and countless authors used to write about it, for books, film and television.

And John was right – his brother was a very talented kisser, and their lip-locking had kept the fear and the discomfort in check and so far Sherlock was still rather calm.

Thinking of their kissing, he fell asleep with a smile but his dreams were haunted by nightmares of him being about to have sex with his brother and finding out he suddenly didn’t have a penis, among other niceties that made him sit up straight with his heart hammering, and he was close to calling his brother but he felt that it would make him look stupid and weak so he forced himself to calm down until he finally found back to sleep, just to be tortured by nightmares some more.

*****

“Do sit down with us, Mrs Hudson. You make me nervous.”

“Oh. Well, if you insist…”

John chuckled behind his newspaper and Sherlock raised his eyebrows at their landlady. She had come upstairs to bring breakfast, pouring tea for them and then she had fussed around like a wired-up hen. She could as well sit with them and ask what was burning on her tongue.

“How was it last night?” she didn’t waste any more time. 

Sherlock's lips looked almost normal again, apart from being a bit red. He was tired though after the rather difficult night. Before waking up for the last time about an hour ago, he had been dreaming that he was about to come into Mycroft's mouth – and found it sewed up with an ugly black thread. But of course Mrs Hudson was not asking about his sweet dreams. “We kissed,” he said, putting jelly onto his toast.

“And?”

John lowered the newspaper. “You should have seen him. His lips looked as if he'd got some bashing.”

“Like _you_ are about to get…” Sherlock said dryly, and grinned when the old lady giggled like a young girl and John poked out his tongue at him.

“Oh, that must have been nice!”

“It was,” Sherlock said simply. He didn’t really mind talking about it. Mycroft would probably be not amused but it would hardly surprise him. And perhaps it did help him to talk about it with his friends.

“So you will see him again today?”

“I don't have much choice, don't you think?” But even if the pressure hadn't been so high – Sherlock _wanted_ to see Mycroft.

“Oh, you're starting to fall for him,” she said in a dreamy voice. “It's impossible to miss. You're in love.”

“Can anyone fall in love so fast? Apart from you, obviously…” he added, recalling her story about her soulmate.

She giggled again and before she could answer John said, “I've never been in love. Well, for a week or two, yes. But it's more like loving to be in love.”

“You're not a romantic, John Watson,” she scolded him. “But our Sherlock is.”

“What?!” both men burst out, and she nodded and patted Sherlock's arm.

“Oh, you think you're so cool and driven by logic and all you care about is science. But I never believed that. You're too passionate about your cases. You get mad when you're bored. You yell at people who annoy you. You lose yourself in playing your violin. You are a man full of emotion, if you want to believe that or not. And that's why I was sure you'd have a soulmate.”

“Who did you think it would be?” John asked her and sipped at his tea.

“Oh, I don't know. Perhaps a film star. Or a famous author. Someone special.”

“And he got the British Government… Ouch!” John rubbed his arm where she had hit him.

“He is very special too. And he knows you, Sherlock. And he's always loved you in his strange, overprotective way.”

Sherlock wondered for a moment if this would get stronger, too. Would Mycroft control him all the time then? Would he spend his days observing where Sherlock went? Plant bugs? Make scenes if he spoke with someone for too long? But no. Mycroft would know everything about their due bond one could know by now, having had almost seven years to get acquainted to the concept; he would know the implications: They were _soulmates_. Nobody could take Sherlock away from him. Not for long. For as long as they both lived, they would be magnetically drawn to each other, for better or for worse.

It frightened him, nearly as much as the image of having sex with his brother. He had always been an independent man, and now he would turn into someone madly in love and unable to break away. He would be needy and silly, clingy and hungry for love, and so would Mycroft, the Iceman… And that was the _good_ alternative…

He realised that Mrs Hudson was watching him with a fond look. “It's okay, Sherlock. I know it scares you. All of it. But once you're bonded with him, this will all disappear.”

“Are you sure? I'm not like everybody. Neither is Mycroft. What if we clash big time all the time? What if all this sentiment causes us to get mad? Even more than we are now…”

“Trust an old woman, dear. This is not in the books for you. You'll be very happy and very horny and you will not only have sore lips…”

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock yelled, and John almost died laughing, and one certain landlady smiled a smug smile, knowing she was absolutely right.

*****

Mycroft tried to focus on reading the newest report from the MI5 but it was difficult, very difficult. The colons seemed to turn into pictures of Sherlock, when he touched the mouse, he felt the soft skin of Sherlock's hand, and when he sipped at his tea to wet his dry mouth, he felt Sherlock's velvety lips instead of hard porcelain.

He had thought he was in love with his brother before. He had been pining for him for so long. But now, since yesterday, he knew what real love was. Real love was to hold the other one and long for merging with him. No kiss had been deep enough; he had wanted to slip into his brother's mouth and be one with him.

My God… If that's what it felt after the first day, he would be a mess until they finally had their bonding sex. If Sherlock managed to do it. Mycroft had no doubt about himself. But Sherlock was shaken in a way that made him feel extremely guilty. Seeing him fall to his knees in a panic attack had been simply horrible. If he just had told him years ago, he could have learned to accept his fate.

Their kissing had given him hope though. Sherlock had liked it, no doubt about it. Not as much as he had but little brother had melted into the caresses more and more.

Mycroft almost turned over his cup when his phone vibrated on his desk. And when he saw it was a text from Sherlock, his heart started to beat even faster.

_Good morning, brother. How are you? SH_

Mycroft stared at the text for a long moment, a probably very silly grin pulling at his mouth. Then he hurried to reply.

_I'm very good, thank you. How are you? Did you sleep well? MH_

_Not really. I had nightmares. You can probably imagine them. SH_

Mycroft's face fell. Of course he could. The sheer thought of having sex with him had to terrify Sherlock to no end. Mycroft just hoped it was the prospect of sex in general and not sex with him in particular. Because he might be able to solve the problem if it was just fear of the first time. But if Sherlock found him disgusting or appalling, they would both be lost. And Mycroft didn’t bother that much about himself. But if Sherlock died because of him… The only comfort was that Mycroft wouldn’t have to live with his guilt…

_I will take good care of you and I will never willingly hurt you. MH_

_I know that. My rational mind knows it all. Perhaps we should consider me taking tranquilizers… SH_

_I'm afraid then it wouldn’t work at all. MH_

_Damn. I should produce something that doesn’t have this effect. SH_

_I would rather have you consenting and conscious. MH_

_You are right. I want to know what I'm doing. And theoretically, I do know what I have to do. It's not that difficult, is it? SH_

_No. It is very easy. And I will guide you. MH_

_I know that. I'm in the best of hands with you. And still… I'm foolish. SH_

_No, Sherlock. I was foolish to not let you know. MH_

_No. If I had known it before, my anxiety would have probably got even worse. SH_

They could have done it before though… Rehearse for the big day. And what if Sherlock had decided that he didn’t like it then? As long as he didn’t have the soulmate mark, sex between them wouldn’t have led to bonding. And if Sherlock had been appalled… There were simply no simple answers to this matter. And it was nothing Mycroft could change now. They had to live with the consequences. And they _would_ live…

_Mrs Hudson is sure it will be great. She foresees everlasting happiness for us. SH_

_I believe her. MH_

_Do you? SH_

Mycroft smiled sadly. Of course Sherlock had big doubts.

_I do, little brother. MH_

_That's good. Oh, Lestrade is calling. See you later? SH_

_Of course. I will let you know when I'm at home so you can come over. It won't be late. Do your best. MH_

_You too. I'm looking forward to see you. Bye. SH_

_So am I. Bye, baby brother. MH_

Mycroft still smiled when Anthea came into the room.

“Sorry, sir, you didn’t answer my knock. I have finished the Hutchinson contract.” She put a pile of papers onto his desk.

“Thank you, Anthea. I was a bit… distracted. Um, just one thing…”

“Yes, sir?” She gave him a friendly and expectant look.

“I… Sit down for a moment, would you?”

“Sure.” A moment later she was sitting opposite of his desk, her brow furrowed. “Is anything wrong?” The concern in her voice was evident.

“No. Um. I've got a soul-name.”

“What, now? But…”

“No, I got it when I turned thirty, like everybody else. But my… soulmate only got it very recently.” They had never spoken about him having one or not. They didn’t have this kind of relationship. But now that everything would change, he wanted her to know. She would sooner or later get to know it anyway if Sherlock showed up after the bonding day…

Anthea nodded. “Oh, sure. It was his birthday yesterday.”

“Sorry?”

“Sherlock's.”

“Oh. Yes. But… How…?”

She smiled. “Well, I didn’t know if you have it or not. And I wasn't sure if he was twenty-nine or thirty yesterday. But now that you mentioned it… And who else should it be? But thanks for telling me so I'll be prepared if he bursts in to claim his possession.” She chuckled and got up. “There wasn’t anything else, sir, was it?”

“No,” he mumbled, dumbfounded.

She walked out of his office after picking up his cup with lukewarm tea. “I'll bring you fresh tea. Oh, and your meeting with the PM will take place in an hour.”

“I know,” he said and then she was gone.

Women… They just all knew too much… But none of them seemed to mind, quite the opposite. Their mother had thought they were meant for each other before Sherlock got the mark. Mrs Hudson predicted everlasting happiness for them. And Anthea just took for granted that Sherlock would come running to snog him during his work day (or perhaps to do even more pleasurable things…).

Weren't women usually right in what they thought? From his experience yes, most of the times they were.

When he turned his attention to the papers Anthea had brought him, he was smiling once more. Probably he hadn't smiled that often in his entire life…

*****

Sherlock took in the sight at once. Not of the dead body, almost melded with the asphalt, but of the cops and forensics people around.

He glowered at Lestrade, who held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“No, I didn’t tell anyone, Sherlock.”

“But they all know it!”

“Yeah, well, they seem to absorb such juicy news by themselves…”

Sherlock sulked while John was chuckling next to them.

“I can't wait for Donovan to… Ah, there she's coming.”

Sherlock sighed and watched the attractive sergeant approach while Lestrade and John walked over to the corpse so John as a doctor could have a first look.

“Don't even start saying it,” he welcomed her. “I know you hope I mess it up so you don't have to endure me anymore on your crime scenes. You think I'm so annoying that it had to be my own brother of course, who is already burdened with being related to me. You can't wait for…”

“Shut up, Freak,” she said, crossing her arms. “And they say you can make deductions. You're an idiot.” Sherlock fumed but of course it didn’t bother her in the least. “We once had a case. A really nasty one. Was before you started haunting our crime scenes.” Sherlock sighed but kept silent. She didn't sound hostile but rather teasing. But now she turned serious again. “A man lived together with another man. They were happy. And then one of them turned thirty, and the name that appeared on his arm was not the one of his partner but his brother's best friend.”

Sherlock nodded. “And the former partner didn’t want to give him up.”

“Exactly. He killed the soulmate of his boyfriend. And fled with him to France. Where the man he loved died, of course. Then he shot himself.”

Sherlock heard the facts and his imagination wasn't big enough to picture the drama that had unfolded in this unlucky case.

“And three years ago, my best friend turned thirty,” Sally continued, bracing herself. “And she got a woman's name on her arm. A co-worker.” She looked at Sherlock as if to make sure he was listening. He gave her an encouraging nod. “Her parents… They were very conservative people. They had urged her to go out with men and she did, even though she'd always known she was only interested in women.”

Sherlock could deduce the ending easily. “She didn’t act on bonding with this woman, and they both died.”

“Yep. And then her mother killed herself.”

Sherlock shook his head. “People are unbelievably unreasonable. Whatever this soulmate thing is, it's inevitable. You have to act on it as it's decided by some weird, nasty higher power or you die. Everybody knows that.”

“We both know very well that people are just not reasonable…”

That was very true. “How about you?” he asked then, almost expecting her to turn hostile once more and tell him that this was none of his business.

“I don't have it.” Sherlock looked over to Philip Anderson, who was talking to John and Lestrade now. She followed his look. “He does. His wife.”

“Oh…” Sherlock had never asked about it, not even thought about it, not even after easily deducing that they were in a relationship even though Anderson was married, but it made perfect sense.

“Yeah. He can never leave her even though he's not happy. Neither is Lestrade.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You're lucky, Sherlock. I've never met him but you should have seen your face when you just came here. You're struggling with it but you already look much happier than I've ever seen you.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Are you deducing me now, Donovan?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Perhaps I did learn a thing or two from you, Freak.”

“You know, it almost sounds like an endearment now.”

She smiled before she got serious again. “I guess it's true and you never…” She made a rather vulgar gesture with her right hand, and Sherlock blushed and then blushed some more because his childish reaction was just further embarrassing him. “Don't be afraid. I bet he'll be just very nice to you.”

Sherlock nodded. He knew Mycroft would be, had known that for sure before Mycroft had assured him of it. “Yeah. I'll do my best…”

“Do that. We would miss you otherwise.”

“Would you?”

“No.” She giggled, and Sherlock grinned.

“You're really not that bad.”

“Oh, that's high praise, coming from you!”

“Don't get used to it…”

“Wouldn’t dream of it… Go now and save our arses, Sherlock.” She nodded at the corpse and a friendly smiling Lestrade.

“I will. And… thank you. Never thought you could be so nice.”

“Don't…”

“…get used to it, I know.” He winked at her and then he walked over to the DI and the flat corpse to do his job.

*****

Mycroft tried not to drool when he stepped back from the door so Sherlock could come in. His brother always looked great but today… His hair was freshly cut and he could see more of his gorgeous face than usual. His eyes were sparkling with anticipation (and yes, a bit of fear) and his lips were reddened from the cold outside.

“Did you walk here?” He took his brother's coat to hang it up.

Sherlock shrugged. “I felt I had to. I was already on my way when you called.”

Mycroft watched him closely. “As if you knew it would happen very soon?”

“Yes. Just like that. A premonition, if you want.”

“It's sharpening your wits. Not that they would have needed any sharpening,” he hurried to add.

Sherlock grinned and it made his heart jump. “You're right. Something's happening already. It's rare but it does happen.”

“Probably it only happens to very smart people.”

“Which explains why nothing has changed for you?” Sherlock teased him, and Mycroft laughed.

“I think,” he said then, pensively, “it's because I'd loved you for so long already. I've always had a sixth sense when you were in trouble.” _When I had to save you from an overdose for example…_ He did recall these horrible moments, and Sherlock's spitting and shouting when he had dragged him out of one of these awful places.

Sherlock looked at him as if he knew exactly what he was thinking, and he probably did. “Right. That makes sense. And it's not so much about sharpening my wits. This doesn’t have much to do with intelligence. It goes far beyond that.”

“Yes. It's almost as if we were soulmates,” Mycroft said with a smile and Sherlock burst out laughing, and it was the best sound he had heard for a long while.

They were walking to the living room now, close enough to have their shoulders touch each other at every step. It was only five-thirty so they would have dinner later. They would use the time in a different way…

But of course they wouldn’t start right off snogging; it would only scare his brother, so he asked him about his day, and listened to Sherlock's dry and entertaining stories about his flatmate and his landlady, the case of the human roadkill and a very understanding Sergeant Donovan while they were sitting on his couch once more, each with a glass of fine whiskey this time.

“And when I had told them which car they had to look for and where the murderer has to live, Anderson told me some more soulmate-horror-stories. Everybody is full of them!”

“It has always fascinated people. No matter if they have a soulmate themselves or not.”

“Yeah, and he is obviously not very happy with his own… He brought up the story of a man who was sentenced to life imprisonment for three murders, and then the woman whose name he was bearing turned thirty. He wasn't allowed to have visitors because he was a real loose cannon, and when she finally found a judge who wanted to make it possible, the whole procedure took too long for her. And him, too, but nobody cared that much about him…”

“Oh, wow.” This was a truly awful story. The woman wouldn’t have had a very happy life with a soulmate like this but in this way, she'd had none at all. “I wonder why they were matched at all…”

“They had grown up together. She claimed he wasn't that bad…”

“Oh dear…”

“And then he told me about a man who couldn’t fly to the country his soulmate lived in because of a volcanic outburst that made any air traffic impossible for several days…”

Mycroft started to feel a tad angry about the people who found it necessary to bother Sherlock with stories of soulmates who had died because they couldn’t consummate their bond. His brother was, despite their lovely kissing and their increasingly good relationship, anxious enough because of the prospect of sex and falling for him for good. He didn’t need to be troubled any more.

He stroked over Sherlock's face, his thumb rubbing over one sharp cheekbone. “It's not going to be like this. Not for any reason at all.”

Sherlock nodded and then moved forward so their mouths crashed together. Mycroft was surprised for a moment before he tenderly kissed his brother, his pulse starting to speed up, his heart seemingly doing strange little flips. “I'll never let that happen,” he mumbled, pulling Sherlock closer, and then his brother was basically sitting on his lap, and Mycroft got hard in his pants. Rock hard… Very carefully he pulled Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers and let his hand slide over Sherlock's back.

“Is that all right?” he asked him in between kissing him, and Sherlock nodded.

“Yeah. It's… nice…”

Nice wasn't nearly the word Mycroft would have used to describe feeling his brother's smooth, warm skin. He rubbed it in gentle circles, feeling Sherlock's breath hitch. And he could also feel his brother's erection, and he almost fell apart from relief. It wouldn’t happen tonight. Sherlock wasn't ready for it; he didn’t even have to look into his eyes to know that. But he didn’t find Mycroft appalling. He was getting turned on by being touched by him. It would be fine. Not right now though…

“Mycroft…” Sherlock pleaded, and he sounded as if he was close to panicking once more, afraid of his own courage and the reactions of his body, and that couldn’t happen.

“Shhh. It's all right.” Mycroft helped him sit down next to him and glanced at the bulge in Sherlock's black trousers.

Sherlock was staring at his one. “Bit much, now,” he stammered. “Sorry…”

“It's fine, little brother. It doesn’t have to happen tonight.” Actually they had got further already than he had expected.

Sherlock nodded and swallowed so hard as if he had a real lump in his throat. “Thank you. Don't think I… could have done much more. Despite this.” He peeked at his own crotch with a sheepish little smile.

“Your body's rather ready, but your soul's not,” Mycroft said, smiling.

“Yeah. That seems about right.” Sherlock looked at him with an expression of relief and gratitude. “Can you… can you hold me a bit more though?”

“That I can definitely do.”

And so the Holmes brothers sat together, entangled with each other, kissing every few seconds after Sherlock had initiated more snogging, and Mycroft could feel his brother relax in his embrace but he also didn’t miss his underlying anxiety, and it touched him deeply and made him hold him even closer, and he wondered how he was supposed to love him any more than he already did now.


	6. Jealousy, Desire And Reality

The case was barely a _seven_. Bordering on _six_. And it took Sherlock's full willpower to not throw the client out, who was telling his mildly interesting story in a slow, monotone voice that irked him to no end.

But of course he was well aware that it wasn't the client's fault that he was so fidgety. It was the memory of Mycroft's large hand on his back, stroking him ever so gently, his hard cock against Sherlock's arse, Sherlock's own sudden erection at the first remotely erotic touching he had ever experienced. It had felt so nice – and so disturbing. It had been too much, and it had only been innocent petting compared to what lay ahead of them.

His incapability of going on with it raised his worst fears. He had tried to cover his anxiety, knowing he would never be able to deceive his brother. In his arms, while they had been doing nothing more than kissing, he had calmed down again, and he had been feeling really well. Safe.

And still the fear had not gone away and it seemed to overwhelm him now, knowing he had only three days left to do much more with his brother than kissing him and having him touch his back in a way only a little more than brotherly or cuddle with him as nicely as he had afterwards. They couldn’t go on in such a pace, and Sherlock knew very well that _he_ was the problem, not Mycroft. He had seen – and felt – all signs of high sexual arousal in his brother and probably Mycroft would have been able – and willing – to go all the way at once. He had told Sherlock it was fine and they didn’t have to do anything right now, and that was true, but it wouldn’t be true for that much longer.

“I have to go see my brother now,” he said, standing up, interrupting the monotonous singsong of the old man ranting about his neighbour and his lost wife.

“But I'm not finished!” the client with the ugly hairpiece protested, but John nodded at once.

“Yes. Go to him.” He gave Sherlock an encouraging smile that told Sherlock more than any vocalised concern that John was thinking the same - his time was running out.

He gave his friend a grateful nod and then he was gone, hoping to find his brother in his Whitehall office.

*****

Sherlock was a bit surprised that as soon as the guard in the bulletproof glass cubicle at the entrance saw him, he was let through into the heart of the British government. Mycroft had obviously informed the staff about the facts, anticipating that Sherlock would eventually show up.

Eager to see him, he stalked through the long corridors, passing by many closed doors and some open ones, the noises of murmured conversations, ringing phones and the occasional laughter or screaming accompanying him on his way.

Anthea looked up from her laptop screen, not in the least surprised to see him. Obviously she had been informed that he was on his way. “Hello, Mr Holmes. You can go through. He's free.”

“Not quite,” he couldn’t help but replying, and she winked at him.

“I've heard as much. Be nice to him, would you?”

“I'll always be nice to him from now on,” Sherlock said, knowing that a) he didn’t have any choice at least for the next three days and b) he had lost every urge to insult and hurt his brother.

And when he stepped into his office, closing the door with his heel as soon as had entered, he could feel his heart make a jump when Mycroft stood up and smiled at him.

“Hello,” Sherlock breathed. “I just had to… drop by and see you.”

“What a pleasant surprise. Do you want anything? Tea? Ginger nuts?”

“Oh, I'll never say 'no' to ginger nuts, and some tea to make them go down smoothly.”

Mycroft smiled and used the intercom to ask Anthea to provide them with the goodies. “Come to me, little brother.”

Sherlock, having hastily unbuttoned his coat and throwing it over a chair now, hurried over to him, and he fell into his arms as soon as Mycroft had walked around his desk.

It felt so good to be there. To take in his brother's scent, rubbing his face against his neck, having him in a firm grip around the waist… And have him stroking his back and his hair, and eventually, feeling his lips on his ones.

They didn’t say another word for now and broke apart without undue haste when they heard the knock at the door. Mycroft asked Anthea in and she came with a smile and a small tray which she set onto the desk.

“Ginger nuts and earl grey for the gentlemen,” she said with a smirk, and then somebody else came through the open door without even bothering to knock.

Sherlock heard Anthea sigh almost inaudibly, saw his brother tense and narrowed his eyes at the intruder, whom he had never seen before. And he couldn’t stand her at first sight…

It was a short woman with grey hair, bound together in a fancy knot. Her tasteful makeup couldn’t quite hide that she was a lot older than his brother; her tight, light-blue skirt suit stressed her petite figure, and she wore high heels that were not quite fitting for a work day. But she wasn't an assistant or something; she oozed power and competence – and she was into his brother and quite heftily so and Sherlock didn’t like that one bit.

“Mycroft,” she purred in a voice that was dripping with sophistication and haughtiness. “Oh, you have a visitor. You're his brother, aren't you?” She held out her hand, and Sherlock took it with reluctance, suppressing the urge to crash her fragile fingers in his large hand.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Yes, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood, head of the MI6, my brother, Sherlock Holmes.”

“The famous detective! It's so nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock all but snarled and stepped back as soon as the ghastly handshake was over. And then he felt Mycroft's hand on the small of his back, a soothing, tender gesture that made him calm down immediately.

Anthea, who had been completely ignored by the lady, left the room, but not before giving Sherlock an encouraging glance, which he answered with a small smile.

“I won't keep you long, Mycroft,” the lady said, batting her eyelashes at him (and Sherlock thought with grim satisfaction that his ones were decidedly longer without wearing mascara). “I got two very good tickets for the new 'Pygmalion' performance I told you about. They are for Saturday. You have time, I suppose?”

“As a matter of fact, no,” Mycroft said, smiling politely. “I'll be busy with my soulmate then.”

Sherlock, having boiled with unknown jealousy at her approach, didn’t suppress the smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth now.

She didn’t look at him anyway, her narrowed eyes fixed on Mycroft instead. “Your… What? You never mentioned you had one!”

“Well, I do. But he only got his mark a couple of days ago.”

“He?!” she yelled, and her voice didn’t sound that sophisticated anymore. It rather resembled the one of a fishwife hyping her goods on a particularly bad day.

“And he is right here.” And with this Mycroft put his arm around Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock melted into the embrace, gleefully looking down on the woman, whose face had lost every colour under the makeup.

“This is horrible!”

“You are forgetting yourself, Lady Smallwood,” Mycroft retorted coldly.

“And you can forget putting your nasty old fingers on him,” Sherlock broke his silence, his arm firmly wrapped around his brother's waist now. “He's _mine_.” And he meant it with every fibre of his heart. The jealousy had finally proven to him that he did, in fact, love his brother very much already.

He felt him looking at him and turned his head, and the affection in Mycroft's eyes made his knees got weak, but in a good way this time. He hardly heard the woman turning on her heels and hastening out of the room. He forgot about tea and ginger nuts when their lips met for a deep, passionate kiss, both pawing at one another in Mycroft's cool, sober office, kissing until they were both entirely breathless – and hard in their pants. Sherlock couldn’t suppress a groan when their erections grinded against each other.

It had to happen – not now but tonight. Sherlock wanted it. He would make it happen, no matter how!

“Come now. Let's sit down and enjoy your beloved biscuits and drink our lukewarm tea,” Mycroft said with a wink.

Sherlock grinned and put a ginger nut into his mouth after taking a seat on Mycroft's desk, offering it to his brother, who rolled his eyes in a fond way and took half of it from between his lips and chewed it while Sherlock straightened up again and ate the other half.

“'s good, isn't it?”

“Pleasant,” Mycroft agreed, and to Sherlock's delight, he took another one and presented it to Sherlock in the same way while half rising from his chair again.

Sherlock touched the back of his head when he took it from him, not just half of it but the whole thing, and he grinned with his mouth full of crumbs when Mycroft playfully protested.

“Greedy boy!”

Sherlock swallowed the dry biscuit and nodded. “The greediest. I want you, Mycroft. Not here on your desk… That might happen later… but when we meet in your house later on. Please?”

Mycroft gulped and his pupils were blown with desire. “Yes. I'll be home early. Why don't you go there around four and take a bath and relax and get ready for me?”

“Yes. Good idea!” He would do some experiments before if there wasn't a case and then he would soak in his brother's tub and get in the mood again. “I have a key.”

“I know.” Mycroft smiled at him and kissed him again, and Sherlock knew he would beat down any panic and anxiety that would creep up on him again.

Soon after some more kissing he left Mycroft to his duties and after texting John and getting the answer that no client was waiting, he went to St. Bart's instead of returning to Baker Street to distract himself before he was allowed to jump his brother.

*****

He almost regretted this decision when he met Molly in the laboratory. She looked like a wounded little animal and her thin lips hardly managed a smile when she greeted him. But he couldn’t avoid her forever and she should better get used to him being bonded with Mycroft. Which would surely happen later! They would have sex; Mycroft would stick his big cock into his arse and fill him with his come, and then Sherlock would get sucked off by him… Or perhaps Mycroft wanted it the other way around? Would want him to suck him and drink his semen? Sherlock felt queasy all at once and he hated it.

“You're okay, Sherlock?” Molly asked him, her voice full of concern.

“Yes! I'm fine! Do you have something – eyeballs, livers, hearts, testicles, anything?” Sherlock stammered, his voice too high and shrill to his own ears.

He was doomed… He had been so stupid thinking he could have sex with Mycroft suddenly, just so. And now he was panicking again at the sheer imagination of it…

“Come, sit down. I'll get you some water.” She pulled a chair for him from under a work table and helped him place his useless arse on it, and then she hastily disappeared to bring him water as if he was a hyperventilating virgin, which he was!

He took the glass with shivering fingers and downed the cold fluid, briefly considering pouring it over his stupid head instead.

“What's wrong, Sherlock? Did he do something with you you couldn’t cope with?”

She didn’t have to specify whom she was talking about.

Sherlock glowered at her. “Are you mad? He would never do that!”

She nodded as if she hadn't seriously expected another answer. “Then what?” She took another chair and sat down opposite of him.

“I want to! I want to do it all with him and then I think about it and I just get crazy…”

“Did you… try it already?”

“Not quite. We just kissed and I really liked it, and I got hard and he did, too and he…” He broke off, wondering what was wrong with him to tell her all that, her of all people.

She gave him a wry but encouraging smile. “It's okay. You can say it.”

“Why are you so understanding? You've always wanted me for yourself!”

She sighed. “And I've always known I wouldn’t have you, if you got a soulmate or not. Sure, when John said it started with a 'M'…”

“Yeah, sometimes he's the biggest idiot on earth…”

She giggled and hid her mouth behind her hand. Sherlock smiled and felt his pulse finally decrease. But then his face darkened again.

“I don't know what to do. I want him, I… love him but I'm so bloody afraid I can't have sex with him.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then you know he will take good care of you.”

“Yes, but that's not the point…” And the problem was he didn’t know what exactly the point was. The fear of bodily fluids? That was ridiculous. He had experimented with all kinds of them. Had examined corpses quite thoroughly. Had drunk his own blood during an experiment. And he might even have lapped at his fingers after masturbating... Just for science… And he knew Mycroft would never expect him to swallow his load the first time they had sex, probably not even at all. And what was so bad about getting some hot fluid shot up his arse? If he didn’t like that, they could use condoms the next time. He could even experiment with that, filling a syringe and simulating a come shot. Perhaps John would assist him… But somehow he knew it wouldn’t change anything about his fears.

“Perhaps you're just afraid to fail,” Molly said softly.

“Well, I do have every right to be! If I do fail, we'll both die…” He shuddered. If that happened, it would also kill their parents. England would fall due to losing Mycroft's wisdom. The Yard would fuck up every case. They would be another horror story to make fun of. _'Did you hear the one about the two brothers? One of them couldn’t perform the act and they died even though they had the full five days together!'_ _'Oh, they must have been so stupid!' 'Yes, and they were even in love with each other!' 'Men! Totally useless… More tea, dear?'_ And they would serve as a warning for future soulmates to not fuck it up so greatly…

“You won't fail,” Molly interrupted his cheerful thoughts. “You love him. He loves you.”

“He does.” _But what if I'm not good enough for him?_ Yeah… It _was_ boiling down to being shit scared of failing. Failing at the unknown, the so far unspeakable, the one thing he had never done and had never wanted to do and now he did want it and had no idea if he could… He was just circuiting and chasing his own tail and it was all just horrible…

“Then just do it, Sherlock. Let him arouse you and go for it. If it doesn't work today, you still have three days left. Just jump into it.”

“Have you ever done it?” he blurted, not knowing why. Probably to distract himself from being such a whining loser…

She blushed. “Yes. It wasn’t so nice… every time.”

“Great…”

“Well, neither of them were my soulmate after all! You are meant to be with him. So it will work.”

“You sound like my mother…” He was surprised she hadn't called again. He was sure he would hear from her very soon though.

“I'm sure I'll never get one.” She looked at her blank left arm with deep sorrow.

“Why ever shouldn’t you?”

“Because I already love someone.”

Sherlock grimaced. “That doesn’t mean anything. You'll get over me, and even if you don't have a soulmate, you can find someone who is worth it.”

She shrugged. “I don't think so. But perhaps it's for the better to not have a soulmate. I once had a man here who had tried to cut off his arm as he hated the person who was destined to be with him and of course he bled to death…”

Awesome… Another horror story…

“It was so stupid though,” Molly continued, not sensing his exasperation. “Even if he had succeeded and survived, this woman would have still been his soulmate. It's destiny. Nothing can change anything about it.”

Sherlock knew that. Everybody told him. He even loved his soulmate. He finally had to pull himself together!

He got up, not in the mood for any experiments anymore. He would just go to his brother's house at once, having a look at his pictures and films and everything, trying to get to know him even better, and when Mycroft had finished work and come home, they would do it for real, and it would work, for crying out loud!

“I'll go now. Thanks for your advice.”

Molly gave him a wry smile. “I wasn’t very helpful. But trust yourself, and trust him. I know it will be fine.”

Sherlock nodded. “And you will get your soulmate, and he'll be great.”

She smiled sadly at him, and then he stalked out of St. Bart's, texting John he would go to his brother right away and wasn't to be bothered for the rest of the day.

While he was sitting in the cab, his mother indeed called, and he spent the ride with answering rather embarrassing questions, and when he ended the connection, he knew his mother was deeply worried, having not bought his assurance that he and Mycroft would make it work.

When he arrived in Mycroft's house, he felt tense and frightened once more, and he hurried to occupy himself with rummaging through his soulmate's belongings, and then he took the hot bath Mycroft had suggested him to take and he did relax in hot bubbles after all, but before he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the warmth and comfort of the deliciously smelling water, he thought that not once in his life he had been on such a rollercoaster of emotions, not even in his worst drug days, and that there was obviously a reason for the Holmes-mind to abhor sentiment as it apparently couldn’t deal with it so greatly, nicely put.

Eventually he managed to push all fearsome thoughts aside for now and just soaked.

*****

“Mmm, you smell good,” Mycroft mumbled into Sherlock's still damp hair. “My shampoo smells better on you than on me.” They had kissed thoroughly and now they were standing together, embracing each other tightly.

“Use to sniff your own hair?” Sherlock murmured, and Mycroft laughed, pressing his lithe little brother even closer against him.

He was only wearing Mycroft's bathrobe, and he also smelled of his soap. Mycroft thought he could very well get used to being welcomed at home by this awesome attack at his olfactory nerve and the warmth of his brother's body against his own. But it wouldn’t be like this very often, he assumed. He used to work a lot longer and Sherlock would still chase cases; he was too dependent on adrenaline and adventure to sit in Mycroft's (or hopefully their) house and wait for him to return after a long, arduous day in the halls of power. But they would meet as often as possible he was sure.

“How's my soulmate now?” He stroked Sherlock's back, his skin hot under the thin layer of fabric. He didn’t move southwards even though it was so tempting to feel Sherlock's plush and nearly naked cheeks. Soon…

“Good,” mumbled Sherlock against his neck, rubbing his nose against Mycroft's skin.

Which reminded Mycroft that _he_ hadn't taken a bath. But a hot shower would have to do, judging by the way his brother's long fingers were drawing patterns on his back. Mycroft could feel his tension and he could feel that Sherlock was still afraid but itching to just do it…

“Let me freshen up, little brother, and then I'm all yours.”

“You're all mine if you shower or not,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, and Mycroft grinned.

“That's very true.”

“Mummy called.”

“Yeah. I know.” She had called him afterwards and she had sounded more than a little worried. But what had she been thinking? That it would be so easy for two brothers who had been estranged all their adult life to jump into a sexual relationship? They had grown closer amazingly fast for sure, but Sherlock had been living like a monk all his life, a very snarky, petulant monk with a preference for mayhem, chemical stimulation and general recklessness, but still a man who never had sex with anybody. Of course he was afraid. Of course it had to disturb him. Mycroft totally understood his reluctance. And they still had a few days.

“I want it to happen tonight, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, looking into his eyes now. “If we wait any longer, I'll just get more and more insane.”

“All right. I'll be back in twenty minutes and then we'll see what we can do today.”

“You don't think it will work,” Sherlock said quietly.

“I didn’t say that. I just say let's not put so much pressure on ourselves. We still have time.”

“The pressure is just getting stronger the longer I behave like a stupid… virgin. And yes, I do know I am, in fact, a virgin.”

Mycroft could see in his face that he hated to be labelled like this. “Not for much longer.”

Sherlock nodded, his face dark, and it didn’t take a genius to get that he was thinking, _'Better not, or I'll end up a dead virgin.'_

“Come, let's go upstairs, so you can make yourself comfortable.”

Mycroft picked up the small bag he had set onto the floor to take off his coat and greet his brother, containing all sorts of items that could make their first (and second, and third…) encounter more pleasurable. He had no idea if he would need it today, and he did have some lubrication in his nightstand already, but he thought it never hurt to be well prepared.

*****

Sherlock was listening to the noises in the bathroom attached to Mycroft's bedroom. He could hear the shower, the noise of the electric razor, and was imaging Mycroft moving in there the entire time while lying on his brother's comfortable bed, naked apart from the robe he had borrowed from him, the silky material nice and soft on his skin.

He was shivering in anticipation now, nervous to the very core but determined nonetheless. And when Mycroft opened up the door between the rooms he had chastely closed, dressed in a spare robe he had taken from his wardrobe, his hair damp, his face rosy from shaving, Sherlock couldn’t utter a single word, but he raised his left arm, the sleeve falling back and exposing the soul-name, silently urging his brother to come to him.

And Mycroft immediately followed his invitation, sitting down on the bed, and he bent down to kiss him, and for a long moment, Sherlock melted into the kiss, his right arm around his brother's neck, and then he pulled at the collar of the robe and Mycroft sat back to slide it off his shoulders, exposing his surprisingly hairy chest, and Sherlock's look was drawn to his large, pink nipples, stiff nubs peeking out of the fur, and he poked at one of them with his forefinger, eliciting a small gasp from his brother.

Mycroft wiggled out of the robe completely, and his cock, heavy and huge, was already plump from their kissing or the brief teasing of his nipple, and Sherlock stared at it, his mouth completely dry all at once.

Mycroft gave him a questioning look while he was tugging at the belt of Sherlock's robe, and Sherlock nodded, still unable to speak.

“Would you like me to put on some music?” Mycroft asked, and even though Sherlock would have liked that as it would distract him from his anxiety and he knew now that Mycroft had very good taste in music after rummaging through his collection, he didn’t want his brother to leave the bed again now, so he shook his head, and Mycroft smiled and loosened the knot of the belt, making the thin fabric fall open to either sides of Sherlock's body.

“God, you're so beautiful,” Mycroft mumbled, his large hand gently stroking over Sherlock's smooth chest, and it felt divine.

Sherlock pulled his arms out of the sleeve so the bathrobe wasn't attached to his body anymore, and he eagerly urged Mycroft to straddle him, and they both moaned when their now bare cocks made contact, Sherlock's as hard as his brother's now.

Mycroft lowered his weight on him ever so carefully, propping up on his elbows, and his soft lips searched Sherlock's once more, and a moment later Sherlock had his legs slung around his brother's body and was kissing the living daylights out of him, rutting against him with sudden need, making his brother respond at once.

It was all that it took – the friction and Mycroft moaning into his mouth – to make Sherlock come. His orgasm was ripped out of his body without any warning, and he screamed and felt hot fluid gushing onto his stomach, his cock trapped between their bodies, twitching against Mycroft's.

“No, God,” he yelled. That could only be a bad joke! He was the walking, talking, spurting shining example for Murphy’s Law – whatever one could mess up, one _would_ mess up… very literally!

“Easy, Sherlock. It's all right. We'll do it again. Now we know it works – and we can have another go soon.”

Sherlock closed his eyes in embarrassment. “I spurted like a horny teenager,” he groaned, and Mycroft chuckled against his lips.

He rolled to Sherlock's side and a few seconds later, he was cleaning Sherlock up with a tissue.

“Perhaps if you… licked it up?” Sherlock asked hopefully, but Mycroft laughed and shook his head.

“That wouldn’t count. You'll have to come down my throat or into my… behind, and within about three minutes before or after I did that. It needs to be happening in one circle of love-making.”

These rules were exceptionally stupid, Sherlock thought, but he didn’t utter that as it wouldn’t change anything anyway. “Would you let me do that? Take you?” he asked instead.

“Of course! I've never done that with anyone else before but with you I will, without a question. And I will love to taste your seed.” As a proof, he lapped at a small trace of come that had managed to hit Sherlock's collarbone, and the sight was making Sherlock's eyes roll in pleasure.

He remembered then that he had come, but his brother had not, and he wrapped his fingers around Mycroft's still half-hard member.

Mycroft looked at his hand with hunger in his eyes. “Yes. Try it. Make me come.”

It was like playing with fire, Sherlock thought. They had come so close to bonding but now Mycroft needed to climax and Sherlock's cock was lying on his thigh like a dead eel. “You're sure? You don't want to wait until I'm ready again?”

“You know… Let's do it tomorrow. Let me be here first and prepare everything so we can really celebrate it. I… think it will work better that way.” Mycroft looked a little sheepish as if embarrassed by his own romantic side that certainly nobody who knew him would have considered to be existent, including Sherlock just a few days ago.

Sherlock smiled. “You like to live dangerously, huh?”

“It will be fine. This was the last proof we needed, don't you think?” Mycroft stroked over his hair. “And now please – just masturbate me if you feel comfortable with it. I won't need long.”

And he didn’t. Sherlock jerked him and it was an awkward thing to do for someone else, but he was a fast learner and experimented with the twists of his wrist and the pressure he was applying, and when Mycroft panted harder and made strange little meowing noises, he knew he had found the perfect rhythm and he went on until Mycroft cried out and hot stickiness was gushing over his still fast-moving hand, and he eased his movements until Mycroft pulled away due to oversensitivity, and then he cleaned him up as well and rested his head on his brother's hot, hairy chest, feeling his heart beat erratically under his face.

When Mycroft curled his arms around him and squeezed him tight, Sherlock closed his eyes, pressed a gentle kiss on the warm skin and smiled, and he was now finally sure it would all be fine.

If neither of them got hit by a car. Or shot. Or mutilated by Lady Smallwood… Or if he continued to spurt like a fountain at the slightest touch at his bare cock…

Sherlock shuddered and clung to his brother even closer as if to crawl beneath his skin.

“You all right?” Mycroft whispered and let his hand play with his curls.

“Yeah. Tomorrow, huh?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Definitely tomorrow.”


	7. The Consummation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I have tortured the boys and you lovely readers long enough :D This will be the climax (cough) of the story, followed by two short epilogues. I hope it was worth the wait :)

“So you basically…” John mimicked an eruption of huge dimension, and Sherlock sighed.

“…yeah, shot my load all over myself like there's no tomorrow…” And if he went on doing that, very soon there _wouldn’t_ be a tomorrow… The line of a sappy song echoed in his mind: _'If tomorrow never comes...'_ He chased it away quickly. It just felt wrong to postpone it any further. But who knew he wouldn’t come equally quickly at the second try? Or the third one? And Mycroft was seven years older than him. How often would it even work for him to get it up?

“Oh, my second husband had the same problem,” Mrs Hudson said from behind and both men cringed.

“Don't sneak up on us like that!” Sherlock thundered but she completely ignored him.

“I had to press the head of his little poker down there to get him off the edge.”

John groaned and giggled at the same time and Sherlock desperately tried to get the image out of his brain but he assumed he would need a shovel for that – smashing it onto his head.

“Mrs Hudson. Please!” He felt like panicking once more, and he had really thought he had got over it, silly as he was. He couldn’t even hold his mug without spilling tea everywhere.

“Oh, don't worry, Sherlock. I feel it: today's the day.”

“You can't know that,” he said, stating the obvious. “Perhaps the Queen gets attacked today and they don't let him go. Or I get shot by someone we're running after…”

“Ah, don't be silly. He won't let you down for the _Queen_.”

“For whom else then?!”

She patted his shoulder before sitting down at the breakfast table. “For nobody, dear. And you won't take any dangerous cases until this is settled. And better never again!”

Sherlock exchanged a look with John, and the doctor nodded. She did have a point. They couldn’t avoid all dangerous cases forever but they definitely should do it before the bonding had taken place.

The Baker Street crew was uncharacteristically quiet during their sparse breakfast. The clock was ticking, and it was ticking louder with every day. And wasn't it ironic that Sherlock didn’t have to fear anymore not getting excited enough to perform the act but getting too excited to last long enough to get it done instead?

“I don't want to become another horror story,” he mumbled. “And I don't want my brother to die.” He grimly bit into his toast.

“Nobody will die! You'll try it again tonight, and if it doesn't work because you can't control yourself, call me and I'll come over and make it work!”

Sherlock almost choked on his breakfast. “And how, Mrs Hudson, are you going to do that?” And why did he even ask?!

She smirked and stood up and a moment later Sherlock blinked heftily. She hadn't just done that, had she? He was hallucinating. That had to be the explanation.

“Nice knickers,” John chuckled, and Sherlock fled the table with a loud groan.

*****

“Father.” Mycroft stood up and walked around his desk. “You shouldn’t have come all the way.”

“If I'm too old to visit my son, you may as well shoot me right away,” Siger Holmes said dryly and shook Mycroft's hand.

He had called Mycroft half an hour ago, asking if it was convenient for him to meet, and Mycroft had cancelled an appointment with the MI6, or rather Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin, to see him right away. He had let Anthea call Elizabeth Smallwood's assistant, and he could imagine she had been fuming. He would pay for this and the humiliation she had, in her eyes, received from him and Sherlock, in some way, no doubt about it. But he had of course never made her any wrong hopes, beside the tiny little fact that she was married – to _her_ soulmate…

“Mummy hasn't accompanied you?” Mycroft asked while they were sitting down opposite of each other next to the small table in the corner. Anthea had placed some glasses and mugs there, and he poured tea for his father now.

“No. She's worried to bits.” Father scrutinised Mycroft. “And so am I.”

“You shouldn’t be. It's all going to be fine.”

“Is it?” He looked old, his father, Mycroft realised. Old and very tense. He had put on a suit for this occasion, an old- but good one, but it was crumpled and suddenly too big for his frame, as if he had lost weight over the past few days. “You lied to us, Mycroft. Told us you didn’t bear a soul mark.” He sipped at his tea.

Mycroft bit his bottom lip. “I'm sorry. It seemed to be the only way. At this point, I had no idea how to deal with it.”

“And you know it now? After you and your brother drifted apart more and more over all those years? You shouldn't have let that happened, Myc.”

“It wasn't exactly a decision I made.”

Father smiled sadly. “I know that. Sherlock was a brat towards you.”

“He isn't anymore.”

“Good. That's very good. But… sorry for my indiscretion, but it… hasn't happened yet, obviously.”

Mycroft did so not like this conversation. No son liked to talk about his sex life with his sire obviously, but if it was regarding a sex life with the _other_ _son_ , it was probably many times worse. But he knew he couldn’t escape. “Not yet. But we plan to let it happen this evening.”

Father nodded. “You do have two more days left. But I honestly can't see it happen. I know your mother was over the moon when Sherlock confirmed what she always secretly hoped.”

It was still a miracle to Mycroft. How could any mother hope her sons would end up being romantic soulmates, with all the implications?

Holmes senior sensed his thoughts. “Nobody else would have been good enough for either of you. Or would even in the least live up to your intellects. But Sherlock… He always hated to be touched, at least since he's hit puberty. He didn’t have a single lover in his life I'm sure.”

“No, he didn’t.” Mycroft leaned forward. “Listen, I know you're concerned and I don't blame you in the least. But we got very close to... bonding yesterday and tonight it will happen. He is very well capable of everything that it takes to seal the bond, believe me, and he is not averse to being touched by me.” _In fact he liked it so much he got off like a rocket..._

The old man uttered a sigh of cautious relief. “I hope you will make it work, Mycroft. At least get the bond done. What happens then… I just don't see you crazy in love and happy together. God, he's treated you like trash for as long as I can remember!”

“I can assure you he doesn’t do that anymore. He knows very well what's at stake. And believe it or not – he seems to like me.” _He seems to_ love _me, in fact._ He couldn’t speak that out for some reason, but his father seemed to understand it nonetheless.

Siger Holmes got up. “Your mother will be very happy to hear that. Please call us as soon as it's done, not matter how late it is. When you're able to talk after it, that is…”

Mycroft blushed but he nodded with a wry smile. “We'll do.”

“And why don't you head over to us the weekend after this one? We should celebrate this.”

Mycroft was touched. “Yes. We will do that. Thank you. Thank you for your support.” How many parents would want to throw a little party for their sons having become soulmates? His parents hopefully knew Sherlock (and him) well enough to not invite anybody else to it. Sherlock hated their relatives and Mycroft didn’t like them much better.

“I'll always support my boys. Fate thinks you are meant to be together. Your mother thinks that, too. Who am I to question it?” They walked to the door together. “And she's right. Nobody else would have done it. You're both too smart for your own good and anybody else, and too peculiar, if you forgive me my honesty.”

“Believe me, we do know that,” Mycroft said with a smile.

“You think I should talk to Sherlock, too?”

“No. I'm sure he has enough to do with talking to his friends about it all day… Trust me. It will be fine.”

They shook hands again and Siger Holmes left him alone.

Mycroft returned to his desk, thinking of the evening before. Of their intimacy and Sherlock's enthusiasm. It had been a little too much, too fast. They would sort it out tonight.

He opened a file on his laptop, but he realised he was feeling very tense now, too. He would have to make sure Sherlock stayed on the right side of being aroused, at least for one time, so they could consummate their bond in the required matter.

He straightened his back. He would. He had to. Failure was not an option.

*****

“Is he there? He hasn't answered my calls!”

Anthea looked up from her phone. “He is but he is not to be disturbed.” Since his father had left two hours ago, Mycroft had been focusing on his reports. At least he had said that. Anthea assumed he was a bit distracted by musing about his other task…

Lady Smallwood, who had stormed into her office without bothering to knock, snorted. “Disturbed! Who do you think you are?” She proceeded to walk on.

“His PA. And you are not just bursting in there. Again.” Anthea's desk was close to the door that led to Mycroft's office. Nobody except for the PM just stormed past it, not as long as Anthea was here.

The older woman stopped and turned to her. “Why? Is his _soulmate_ there again? Are they indulging their nasty love on his desk?”

Anthea got up, very slowly. “No. He is working. And he doesn’t have time for you.”

“He will make time! He cancelled our meeting and I need him tonight.”

“No, you don't. _Sherlock_ needs him tonight.”

The meticulously made-up cheeks flushed. “This is just disgusting.”

“Why don't you take your unjustified jealousy and stick it up your posh arse, Lady Smallwood?” Anthea asked sweetly.

The other woman gaped at her. “You…”

“Just leave. He'll get back to you tomorrow. If he can still think straight then…”

“He's as far from being straight as he can get!” hissed the lady.

“Exactly. So why don't you just give up and leave him alone? I know what this meeting was supposed to be about. It's nothing urgent or even important.”

The lady huffed out a nasty laugh. “As if _you_ could judge that.”

Anthea sighed. “I've been his PA for way longer than you've been head of MI6. I do know what's important and what can't be postponed. Debating about budgets is none of it.” It wasn’t quite true; of course it was something that had to be talked about. But certainly not today.

Lady Smallwood bit her bottom lip quite viciously (and Anthea hoped she would poison herself). “Doesn’t it disgust you either?” she asked then. “Two men. Two _brothers_ of all things. Sticking their things into each other…”

Anthea smiled brightly. “No. I'd _pay_ for being allowed to watch.”

Elizabeth Smallwood cast her a flabbergasted look and then she turned around and more or less ran out of Anthea's office on her customary high heels.

A moment later the door of Mycroft's room opened. “You would _what_? And posh… _arse_?”

Anthea grinned. “Oh, did I leave the intercom open?” She winked at him.

“You did indeed…”

“Well, then you heard it, sir.”

“Sometimes you scare me, Anthea.” In fact he didn’t sound scared at all. He sounded amused. And touched.

“At least it scared _her_ , too.”

“Thank you. She would really try to keep me from bonding with Sherlock…” Mycroft said, more to himself probably.

Yes. This woman was so resentful that she would rather see Mycroft dead than with anyone else than her… “Don't let anyone do this.”

“Don't worry. Nobody will get between me and my brother.” He raised his forefinger. “Not a word!”

Anthea laughed. “Don't you worry, either. I would only like to…”

“…watch, yes, I heard. Not even you, sorry.”

“Shame. Would you like fresh tea, sir?”

“Tea would be lovely.” He winked at her now and returned to his office, and Anthea's smile died when the door closed between them.

He should better get on with this. His and Sherlock's time was running out. How could either of them resist the other one? If she had been either brother, she would have been all over the other one at once. But she had seen enough of Sherlock over the years to know it couldn’t be easy. He wasn't exactly a touchy-touchy boy. Neither was Mycroft.

But they had to get it done, the sooner the better.

She sighed and took care of the tea and exchanged a few more words with her boss, who looked pretty calm.

But the worry remained, and she knew he shared it, as well as Sherlock and the father who had left his office with a look between hope and fear.

*****

When Mycroft opened the door of his house for him, Sherlock was on the phone. He winked at him and continued his call – Lestrade, without a doubt.

Mycroft listened to Sherlock's side of the conversation in wonder.

“Yes… The murderer must have been in this building, judging from the pictures… I hope this helps… Sorry… You know why… I won't be available anymore tonight… Tomorrow, yes… Bye, Gill… _Greg_ …” Sherlock rolled his eyes and Mycroft chuckled.

“Lestrade has a murder case, and you haven't hurried to his side?” he asked while taking the lean detective into his arms before Sherlock could even get rid of his coat.

Sherlock rubbed his face against his one like a large cat, and Mycroft thought that there was definitely something feline about his green-eyed (all right, sometimes blue-eyed) brother who moved like a panther. “I'm rather with you than chasing a killer.”

“Mmm.” Mycroft tousled his hair like no cat would allow him to do. Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t have claws. Only metaphorical ones but he had chosen to not use them on him anymore. Not quite voluntarily though. “And totally because of your own free will.”

Sherlock pulled away and tilted his head. “It's not only about this 'have-sex-or-die' business, Mycroft. I really prefer to be with you.”

Mycroft shuddered at the affection in his brother's tone and these mysterious cat eyes. “That's very good to hear.” He knew Sherlock would go on chasing killers when their bond was cut and dried. And that was _he_ after all – the reckless adrenaline junkie, living on the edge, craving for puzzles, the more complicated the better… Mycroft loved this side of him. He loved _every_ side of him. But he was more than a bit touched that Sherlock turned off a murder case to be with him instead.

“Would you like to shower first?” he asked and Sherlock shook his head.

“Did that before I came here. Or do I reek?!”

“No. You never do. Shall we… go upstairs then?”

Sherlock nodded heftily. “Definitely. But before…” He kissed Mycroft surprisingly greedily, and there was no complaining about this lovely interlude.

*****

“Wow. You _romantic_!” Sherlock saw his brother blush and grinned before he turned serious again. “It's beautiful, brother. I appreciate the effort.”

And Mycroft had made an effort. His bedroom was lit by candles, the curtains closed. A dozen pillows graced the large bed. There were nibbles on silver plates. There was the music Sherlock hadn't wanted to ask for the day before – quiet jazzy music he found very appealing.

“I'm glad you like it. If the music is not your thing, we can…”

“No, it's fine. I like these soft tunes.”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes. I've always taken you for the soft kind.”

“Likewise!”

They both laughed and then Sherlock hurried to undress without any further dawdling. Mycroft nodded at him and followed his example; he was wearing a dark-grey suit but he had forgone his sleeve garters and a waistcoat, Sherlock saw when he took off his jacket.

“You're almost naked already,” Sherlock teased him, and Mycroft raised a delicately groomed eyebrow at him and elegantly wiggled out of his shirt. No undershirt either!

“Brat.”

“That's my middle name.”

“It really should be.” Mycroft, naked except for his pants now, offered him a plate. “Salmon?”

“Definitely.” Sherlock gobbled the canape down and rolled his eyes in approval.

They managed to slip under the blanket. The room was warm but it was definitely cosier this way. They ate the delicious goodies and Sherlock, prepped up on some very soft pillows, felt himself equally relaxing and getting aroused by being so close to his brother. Which was a good combination, he figured.

When they had stilled their hunger, Mycroft cupped Sherlock's cheeks. “Are you ready?”

Sherlock swallowed, wondering if it had been such a good idea to eat so much before proceeding to have sex. What if… No! He shook that thought off at once. “Yes.”

Mycroft nodded. “Don't be afraid, little brother. Nothing will happen without your full consent. I thought I could… prepare you and then top you. Is that agreeing with you?”

“Yes.” It had to be! Even if he was split in two by it. “You're big…”

“I am. And I'll open you up very carefully. I've bought some plugs and lubrication.”

Sherlock licked his lips nervously. “Good. Shall I… lie on my stomach then?”

“Yes. Let's get a pillow under your groin so I can access you easily.”

This was embarrassing, wasn’t it? Horrible and embarrassing… and exciting…

Sherlock soon found himself lying flat on the bed, his arse exposed to his brother's scrutiny. It felt a bit like being examined by a doctor… Perhaps he should have rehearsed this with John. But then Mycroft would have strangled his flatmate… And he supposed John wouldn’t have been very keen on seeing so much of him…

He gasped when Mycroft's warm hand made contact with his rather cold arse cheeks, rubbing it gently.

“All right?”

If Mycroft asked him that every time he touched him, this would get even more awkward. “Yes. Just get on with it. I want it.”

“Somehow I don't really think you do…”

Sherlock turned his head, and he thought how handsome his brother looked in the light of the candles. Damn, he was handsome, candles or not! “I'm just my nervous self. But I do want it. I want you.” And he meant it. The weight of Mycroft's hand on his arse felt both arousing and comforting. He knew he was in the best of hands.

Mycroft gave him a shy smile. “Good. Trust me. I'm not going to hurt you. Not yet.”

“What?!”

His brother sighed. “As you've stated already, I'm hung rather big. It will inevitably hurt a bit, no matter how well I'll prepare you. You're not used to such an intrusion. Or…”

“No, Mycroft. I've never had anything up there. I see what you mean. It's okay.” He should have experimented with this. But somehow he was sure he wouldn’t have been any less nervous now if he'd had. This was just something very different, and very important.

“Try to relax and…”

“…trust you, yes. I do trust you. I trust nobody else more than you.”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “That's good. Very…” He took a deep breath and then he had a blue plug in his one hand which looked like a, well, toy, compared to his massive cock, and a small bottle in the other one, and Sherlock closed his eyes and told his body to relax and his brain to just shut the fuck up so they could finally get this done and live happily ever after for God's sake!

*****

Sherlock was panting severely now, and Mycroft knew he was hard, his erection probably piercing the pillow he was lying on. His brother had responded encouragingly well to his preparations. Of course there had been big resistance until his muscles had given way for even the rather small toy but Mycroft had carefully tested if his prostate was the responsive kind, and it obviously was. Stimulating it would help Sherlock to take him, but if he overdid it, it would make him come again at once he assumed. Which wouldn’t be a big deal as they could do it again half an hour later or so, but he was afraid Sherlock would panic again if that happened and would then fail at getting hard again. And he felt that, apart from the worries of their parents and his own ones, and even Anthea's, Sherlock was the closest to break, and he couldn’t let that happen.

So when the plug was seated in him, sticking out of the puckered little hole between the most gorgeous cheeks Mycroft had ever seen, he calmed him down a bit by turning to his back, massaging him, loosening the tense muscles of his neck with the help of deliciously smelling massage oil, distracting him from the intrusion and his arousal. But of course Sherlock would have to climax into him, either after or before Mycroft had done it, so it was a balancing act of enough and too much stimulation. Nobody had ever figured out how whatever power in this universe was responsible for the soulmate thing could know whether the orgasms happened within these three minutes or not but apparently this rule was to be followed strictly or the bonding wouldn’t take place.

“Okay, Sherlock, I'm going to take out the plug now and then…”

“…get your big thing into me, right.”

Mycroft nodded. He had rubbed himself against Sherlock's thigh while massaging him, and he was hard and ready to go. And shivering from nervousness himself now… “Yes. Tell me if you can't take it. Tell me if I have to go slower. I don't want to hurt you.”

“Which you will nonetheless,” Sherlock mumbled dryly.

“I want to reduce it to an absolute minimum.”

“I figure. Come on. Give it to me.”

This wanton statement made Mycroft's cock twitch in excitement, and about a minute later, he had removed the toy and his large crown was pushing against Sherlock's fluttering entrance, which he had lubed up generously once more.

And of course it wasn't opened wide enough. Sherlock groaned in pain when he, very slowly, tried to breach him – and Mycroft's erection wilted within seconds as if to crumble under the horrible fact he was hurting the man he loved.

He cursed and pulled back, his heart beating fast. Sherlock turned around and stared at him, wide-eyed.

“No, no… Not that, too!”

“It's fine, come on, don't freak out.” Mycroft grabbed him and pulled him against his chest, and Sherlock smashed his head against his collarbone quite painfully.

“We're doomed, we'll die and I don't want that, and I love you…”

Mycroft's heart stopped at this statement, and suddenly something calm and secure deep inside him took over. "I love you, too, little brother and it'll be all fine." He petted and soothed Sherlock for a while and then he urged him to lie on his back, and he stroked himself back to hardness, watched by his brother with wide, terrified eyes that finally got calmer, too, and then he was prepped up to both sides of his Sherlock's upper body, and he said, “Can you help me getting into you? Your pace?”

Sherlock gulped and nodded, and a moment later Mycroft felt his hand on his prick and he sighed as it felt wonderful.

It took long and he knew his brother was suppressing any uttering of discomfort, but then he was finally sliding into him, inch by inch, and Sherlock was so tight and wet around him, and he knew he was hurting him and it was so hard to stay hard despite the strong stimulation, but then Sherlock moaned and it wasn’t a moan of pain.

“Is it good?” Mycroft rasped out, and Sherlock nodded, his lips worrying his bottom lip.

“Yes, it burns but… Oh, God… Move…”

And he did, and somehow they fell into a rhythm of thrusts and groans and nails digging into his back and feet thrashing his arse; he was kissing Sherlock while he was taking him, making him his own, and he felt with deep security that it was happening now. He could feel Sherlock getting increasingly hard and wet against his stomach, and then Mycroft reached his peak, stumbling over the edge and falling off on the other side, his semen shooting up in his brother's arse, and he had never come this hard before. And before he had shuddered through his orgasm completely, Sherlock took his cock in hand between their bodies.

“Please, I'm close, please…”

And Mycroft hurried to disentangle from him, ignoring the gush of fluid that followed his cock, and a few seconds later, his lips were engulfing Sherlock's member, and it was red and hard and heavy, and Sherlock was stammering incoherent words, and then he cried out and hot, salty fluid shot down Mycroft's throat, and they both sighed in relief and gratitude while he was swallowing if his life depended on it, which it, well, did, and then it was as if the world around them came to a halt, and Mycroft had never felt like this in his life.

*****

It was nothing so dramatic like an angelic choir singing 'Hallelujah' but it still was an explosion of emotion, even the room seemed to become lighter, and Sherlock felt as if he had been showered with joy. He laughed almost hysterically, clinging to his brother, his soulmate, and Mycroft was laughing too, pressing him close, and all the fear and the worry and the doubt that this couldn't work vanished into nothingness.

"I love you, love you, love you," Sherlock mumbled in between kissing the man whose name he would forever have imprinted in his skin, and he realised now that he was also imprinted in his heart and despite all the stories he'd heard about unhappy soulmates and being forced to be together – he knew it wouldn't be like this for them.

"Mummy was right," he whispered, biting Mycroft's earlobe, and Mycroft chuckled, rubbing his back.

"Mummy is always right."

"I'm so happy, Mycroft."

"Ask me. All my life has led to this moment."

"God, we're so sappy!"

"We are," Mycroft agreed.

"Be prepared for me being the sappiest, neediest, clingiest, horniest soulmate the world has ever seen!"

Mycroft smiled and shook his head. "Not possible. That's going to be _my_ role."

In wonder Sherlock stroked over his face. "I never thought this would feel like this. I'm sorry I took so long and was such a whiny wimp."

"Hush, Sherlock. You never were, and I understood your fears so well. And you witnessed how it affected me, too."

"I want to do it again."

Mycroft laughed out loud. "Yes?"

Sherlock nodded vehemently. "And I want to suck your dick and drink your come."

"Dear Lord. What happened to my frightened little virgin of a brother?" Mycroft teased him, looking thoroughly pleased.

"He turned into a slut."

That brought him another laugh. "As long as he's _my_ slut..."

"Always your slut, big brother. Forever and ever." And then he bent forward and bit into Mycroft's neck, right under the ear, and sucked as hard as he could.

Mycroft yowled in surprise and cursed, but his eyes were sparkling when Sherlock pulled back with a smug smile on his face. "What was that now?" he asked as if he didn't know.

"Everybody should see that you're mine now."

Mycroft chuckled. "Certain people will fume."

"Certain people should just shut up and leave my soulmate alone, or they'll get to know my bad side."

"I want to get to know that, too..."

"You will..." Sherlock let his hand slide over Mycroft's slightly sweaty torso, his cock already beginning to fill out again.

"Wait, love. Before we go at it again, we should do some phone calls and write some texts."

Sherlock pouted but he knew he was right. There were people who had been very worried about them, and they had to know it was all fine now. "All right. You call our parents and text the awesome Anthea, and I will text John, Lestrade and Molly in one go."

Mycroft nodded and after they had cleaned themselves up quickly, Sherlock heard him talking to both their parents while he was firing off his text and quickly responded to his friends' replies.

_It's done. I'm officially bonded now. You can stop preparing my funeral. SH_

_*_

_Shit! Congrats!!! How was it??? JW_

_Great of course. Will tell you more tomorrow. Staying with him tonight. Tell Mrs Hudson! SH_

_Of course you will. And she's here already and says 'bring him over soon and enjoy your first night'! JW_

_I will! Both. Bye for now. SH_

_*_

_Well done, Sherlock. My regards to your brother. I'm happy for you two. Greg_

_Thank you. And tomorrow I will solve your case if you haven’t caught the killer already. SH_

_We have, thanks to your advice. G_

_Damn! You are learning, Gunther! SH_

_:) G_

_*_

_That's great. I told you it would be fine. He's a very lucky man. XXX Molly_

_Yes, you did. And we both are. Thank you for everything. Good night. SH_

_Good night. Enjoy. XXX Molly_

_We will. SH_

*****

When everybody they cared about had been informed that they were bonded soulmates now, Sherlock started his exploration tour with thoroughly licking Mycroft's nipples.

Mycroft moaned quite beautifully, and then he said, “I haven't told you that, but I've agreed with Father that we're going to visit them the other weekend.”

Sherlock groaned. “Must we? We'll have something so much better to do at the weekends!”

Mycroft smiled. “Who says we can't do it there?”

“Oh. Oh! Yes!”

Long fingers tousled his curls. “I knew you would like that. And now – do with me as you wish.”

And Sherlock didn’t need any more encouragement. Free from any fear and filled with more emotion he had ever thought existed, he nibbled and lapped and tasted and stroked his new property, just as he was Mycroft's property now. He paid special attention to his own name on Mycroft's arm, and his brother seemed to like that a lot even though it was hardly an erogenous zone. He nuzzled his face against Mycroft's only very slightly rounded stomach, enjoying the feeling of wiry hair against his lips and eyelids, and finally he lapped at this gorgeous and already proudly standing body part that had felt so surprisingly great in his arse.

“Hello,” he mumbled. “Do you like that?”

“Hey, I'm up here!” Mycroft said, amused. “My cock is not your soulmate.”

“Of course it is. I own you, Mycroft. From your sparse hair to your indecently long feet, and everything in between, including this even larger pole here.” Sherlock pressed a kiss onto the tip and his lips got sticky, making him lick them off to taste his brother's pre-seminal pearls.

“Is that so? So I do own you, too, from these exaggeratedly thick curls to your sweet toes and all the rest, especially the plushest behind this side of the Thames?” Mycroft's voice was teasing but full of adoration, and Sherlock smiled.

“Yes. Just so.”

“I'm glad. Very glad. And now do your worst.”

“Quite literally…”

“As long as you don't bite it off…”

“You fed me already. It's safe.”

“Good.”

They smiled at each other, and Sherlock hoped it would always be like this between them from now on. And then he wrapped his lips about this thick, twitching thing and slowly took it in, knowing enough about blowjobs to watch his teeth, and judging from the sounds his brother was making, he obviously did it quite well. He was soon eagerly sucking and slurping most indecently, savouring the musky taste and the velvety skin sliding over his tongue, fondling Mycroft's large, fuzzy balls, listening to his low moans and stammered praise, and he didn’t back off when Mycroft warned him, swallowing his load with some gagging and wet eyes, and while he was drinking his soulmate's essence, he kept thinking, _'It's mine, it's all mine and he'll be mine forever'_ , and when he scrambled up to lie all over a panting, happy Mycroft, he thought that having a soulmate was the fucking best thing that had ever happened to him.


	8. Epilogue 1 - The Day After

“I have no idea what's so funny, John,” Sherlock said with dignity when he carefully walked over to the living room. He wasn't quite sure if he would be able to sit down. He might need a special pillow… Damn… It had only been the first night… and he regretted nothing.

The doctor couldn’t answer him. He was too busy pointing at him and laughing until he was crying.

Mrs Hudson came upstairs and screamed when she saw him. “Oh, you look so…”

“…I know, Mrs Hudson. I am aware that I look a tad deranged. Could you make me tea, please? And you don't own a haemorrhoid cushion or something by any chance? And get an ambulance for John,” he said with a glance at his flatmate, who was seemingly dying from laughter.

But then the shorter man calmed down and was clinging to Sherlock's neck a moment later. Sherlock winced but patted his back with a wry grin.

“I'm so happy, Sherlock.” He had never shown so clearly that he had been indeed horribly worried about him.

“Thank you, John. I'm going to move out next week…”

“Sure you do. But you'll stick to our plan, right?” John pulled back to look into his eyes.

“Of course. I'll be here when Mycroft is at work. But he might drop by now and then.”

John chuckled rather dirtily. “Of course he will.”

And Sherlock smiled back, and when Mrs Hudson brought his tea and a strange, round pillow, he embraced her and brushed a kiss onto her cheek, and she giggled and called him her dear boy, and Sherlock felt outrageously happy.

*****

Anthea didn’t laugh when she saw Mycroft, but he knew she could just so refrain from it.

“Is something the matter?” he asked her with a playfully raised eyebrow while storing his umbrella, and this destroyed her self-control, and she giggled into her palms. Mycroft grinned and took off his coat.

“Do you,” she spluttered and finally managed to stop laughing, “do you need some cream for it?”

“Nah, I'm going to carry my little war injury with pride and dignity,” Mycroft said with an indeed proud grin and rubbed over the black bruise Sherlock had sucked into his neck. His brother really wasn't subtle about marking his territory. But then, subtlety had always been a foreign concept for his brother.

And then he heard the clicking of high heels behind him and saw Anthea stiffen, and he slowly turned around. “Lady Smallwood. What a pleasure. Can you forgive me for letting you down yesterday?”

She looked at him, speechless, and then her eyes widened when she saw the hickey, and for a moment he thought she would make a scene. But then her shoulders slumped and she nodded. “It's all right.”

“Thank you. I have time now.”

“I will get Sir Edwin to join us. Meeting room number three in half an hour?”

Mycroft nodded with a smile. “Suits me fine.”

She gave him a rather sad look but then she turned around and even nodded at Anthea before she left. “Miss Ames.”

“Lady Smallwood.”

Mycroft and his PA watched her go and then Anthea turned to him. “Wow. Wonders never cease. You totally took the wind out of her sails before she could even start to get bitchy.”

“It doesn’t do to burn bridges with people you have to work with,” Mycroft said. “No matter how much you would like to.” _Or how little you like them…_

“Always the diplomate,” Anthea smirked. Of course she had watched him interact with the most complicated people over the years in an equal manner. But it had never been on such a personal level.

“Not always though. Last night I was _Mr Passionate-Lover_ for my precious soulmate,” Mycroft retorted with a deadpan expression and in an extra-posh accent, and then he chuckled when Anthea burst out laughing again.

He couldn’t remember having ever been in such a good mood when he had come to work. Could it be because of all the sex in the night and the heavy snogging in the morning? He had hardly slept but he wasn't tired at all. It was as if he had been injected with energy.

Before going over to his meeting, he texted with Sherlock for several minutes, and he still had a smile on his face when he joined his sour-looking colleagues, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to wait until the evening before meeting his brother again, or rather: his soulmate.

*****

“Now, that was an interesting case, wasn’t it?” John closed the door behind the happy client.

Sherlock snorted. “Interesting for whom? A four-year-old would have solved it in three minutes!”

“Then why did you not tell us your solution right away?”

“Because you kept making cow eyes and asking one question after the other. It seemed impolite to interrupt your pathetic struggles.”

John gasped. “My God! Is that what sex does to you? You're worse than ever!”

Sherlock fell back into his armchair. “I'm sorry. I just… God, I _miss_ him!” And it was only the day after their bonding for heaven's sake! He had basically just left Mycroft!

The doctor joined him and smiled. “Oh, that's it. You've found a new addiction. A good one this time.”

“Yes but he's not here!” Sherlock whined. “It's already starting! All this sentiment is making me go crazy!”

“You've always been crazy,” John retorted dryly. “Why don't you head over to his office if you can't stand to wait any longer? Or ask him to come here? You know he's welcome.”

“He's in another meeting now. Something about the safety of the Queen or some other unimportant nonsense.” John chuckled and Sherlock glowered at him. “What?! She's old! She is that tiny old lady, isn’t she?”

“Oh Lord. Don't tell Mycroft you don't know who our Queen is. But yes. It's her.”

“See! I do know it!” Sherlock got up again and proceeded to pace through the room.

“Sherlock, calm down! I bet… Oh!”

Sherlock had stopped his manic running. A doorknocker had been straightened. “He's here! Go away!”

John laughed. “Not in this life. I want to see that with my own eyes.”

“What? You want to watch us copulating?!”

“God no. But I want to see the Holmeses succumbing to sentiment, sexuality and being soulmates.” John hurried to open the door of their flat. “Hello, Mycroft. What brought you here on this beautiful day?”

“My soulmate,” came the dry reply, and Sherlock saw how his brother's eyes were sparkling almost maniacally and he knew Mycroft had been equally dying to meet him, and then he was clinging to Mycroft's neck and kissing the living hell out of him.

They kissed wildly and roughly, both fisting the other's clothes, grinding against each other, and Sherlock had totally forgotten about John when he heard him suggest to perhaps go to Sherlock's bedroom in a rather shaky voice, and Sherlock didn’t have to look at John's crotch to know their show was turning him on.

He smirked at him, his groin pressed against Mycroft's. “Not gay, huh?”

“No. But that… God… Holmeses!” John rasped out, and both Sherlock and Mycroft laughed.

Sherlock took his brother's hand. “Come. Let's get some privacy before Mrs Hudson comes back from her shopping trip and wants to watch us for real, probably while drinking some tea and eating biscuits and clapping when she likes something really a lot.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded happily. “I have about an hour.”

“In an hour, we can manage two rounds.”

“At least.”

And off they went.

*****

It was not possible to have a clear thought. There was no hint of shame about John Watson being just a few rooms away. Not even Mrs Hudson in a cheerleader uniform, swinging pompons, would have changed anything about his need, his hunger and his love when he was all over Sherlock after they had more or less ripped the other one's clothes off, letting them drop onto the floor carelessly..

Then his teeth were worrying a long pale neck. His fingertips were exploring smooth skin. His mouth was engulfing Sherlock's leaking prick. He was so aroused that his brain wasn't working properly anymore. He only saw glimpses of Sherlock's open mouth, heard only fragments of his moaning and pleading while he was sucking him relentlessly, and when Sherlock spilled down his throat a very short time later, it was like drinking the essence of love, of devotion, of obsession. It was as if they existed in a bubble, the world outside only a distant memory. Nothing counted but the two of them.

He let himself be manhandled onto his back, spreading out on Sherlock's single bed, not caring about the lack of space. His brother would move in with him in just a couple of days but perhaps he might still order a king size bed for him for further visits during the day. But that was the last slightly coherent thought he could manage before Sherlock was all over him, these fantastic lips closing around his aching cock, a wet tongue probing at his slit, and then Sherlock started sucking him as if he'd never done anything else and Mycroft just let himself fall into this incredible feeling of being worshipped by his soulmate, the odd scratching of teeth over his tender flesh even adding to his arousal, and when he came, he bucked up and cried out, and in the go he heard a decidedly female cry coming from Sherlock's living room, and Sherlock looked up to him, still sucking him dry, his chin covered with saliva and the semen he had not caught, and he started to grin around Mycroft's twitching cock, and Mycroft bent his head back and laughed, feeling ridiculously happy, satisfied and so not embarrassed by Mrs Hudson's uttering of delight.

*****

Nothing should feel so good. But it did…

Mycroft turned his head and his beautiful blue eyes bored into Sherlock's. “It's fine. Go on. Thrust.”

Sherlock hoped he wasn't literally drooling. Mycroft on all fours – he had told Sherlock this position would be easier for the first time – his long back bending so he was sticking out his round little arse to him, the arse he was now sliding into inch by arousing inch. It made a squelching noise due to all the lubrication he had used while preparing Mycroft.

He hadn't thought Mycroft would want him to top him so soon but his own arse hadn't been in the condition to have a go again after the last night and Mycroft had said, in an incredibly sexy low voice, that he wanted him inside him, and that's where Sherlock was now, buried to the hilt now in his brother, his soulmate and he felt like howling his excitement to the moon.

They had foregone the second round when Mycroft had been in Baker Street earlier, content with kissing and cuddling to the mumbled conversation of John and Mrs Hudson on the other side of the flat. Sherlock had never realised how badly soundproofed their home really was. Well, Mycroft would certainly be around more often even though they would spend the nights together forever very soon; in fact Sherlock didn’t plan to sleep in his bed ever again even before moving in with his brother.

In the end they had come out, tousled, with a silly grin on their faces, and Mrs Hudson had congratulated them whole-heartedly and presented tea and cake, and Sherlock and Mycroft had sat together with her and the doctor for a moment until it had been time for Mycroft to go back to work. They had kissed hungrily again before they had reluctantly parted, and Sherlock hadn't been able to sit still until he had been able to go to his brother's house after solving two mildly interesting cases.

He knew it wouldn’t be like this forever – they would forever love each other but the novelty and the neediness would wear off a bit. But as his soulmate was the smartest, handsomest and most fascinating man on earth, he doubted that he would ever not gag for being with him, and he could see the same need in his brother's eyes when he had greeted him at the door with passionate kisses. And Sherlock would be very happy if neither of them ever ceased to crave for the other one, no matter how exhausting it might get and how sore they both would be…

And now he started thrusting into his brother's pert arse, holding him at the hips, and it felt as if his groin had been set on fire. He knew he wouldn’t last long and too soon he felt the sizzling build-up of his climax and he screamed his brother's name when he filled him with his release, and Mycroft shuddered and moaned when he followed him over the edge as soon as Sherlock had recovered enough to reach around him and jerk his massive cock.

A bit of cleaning up later, Sherlock found his already well-known and much-loved place in Mycroft's arms, his head resting on his chest.

“And,” Mycroft whispered, “is being my soulmate as horrible as you thought it would be?”

Sherlock smiled and pressed a kiss onto a lovely nipple. “Much worse.”

“Good.”

A long-fingered hand rubbed his scalp and Sherlock nuzzled his face into wiry chest hair. “I love you.”

“Well, that's very good, because I love you three times around the earth.”

“Only three times?”

“Make it four.”

And Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes and knew there was no better place to be – snuggled up with big brother.


	9. Epilogue 2 - Glimpses At The Happy Life Of Two Soulmates

### A Visit in Whitehall

“Hello Anthea! Isn't it a beautiful day today!”

She grinned. “We're in a splendid mood, aren't we?”

Sherlock winked at her. “If my brother was your soulmate, you'd be too. He's very bi…”

“Sherlock. Just don't.” Mycroft was standing in the doorframe, scowling most unconvincingly.

Anthea giggled and Sherlock grinned. “Don't pretend that bothers you, brother.” He bent over to Anthea and whispered conspiratorially, “His cock is so big it would shame a python.” The PA made a strangled noise from laughter and Sherlock nodded. “Exactly my reaction whenever he…”

“Sherlock! Get your behind into my office. Now.” Mycroft had forced a stern expression onto his face but it didn’t look any more believable than the scowl.

“The sooner the better. You know the routine, Anthea - please guard the gate. We're not to be disturbed.”

She made an affirmative gesture with her hand, unable to speak at the moment, and Sherlock winked again and followed his brother into his office.

“What am I supposed to do with you, hm?” Mycroft asked very rhetorically while curling his arms around Sherlock's waist.

“What you did yesterday, and the day before. Bend me over your desk and fuck me.”

“Your phrasing gets ghastlier by the hour,” Mycroft mumbled, licking over his ear.

“Mmm. I like that.”

“You like everything I do to you.”

“Guilty as charged.” Sherlock stepped back and unzipped his brother's trousers.

“You're shameless,” purred Mycroft when he reached into his fly to stroke him through his boxer briefs, and Sherlock nodded fiercely.

“I am.” He placed himself against the desk, poking out his arse most wantonly after opening and shoving down his own black trousers; he had forgone wearing pants when he was about to meet his brother. Which meant he didn’t have to bother with underwear very often these days.

“What… what is that?”

“What do you think?” Sherlock turned and smirked at his brother's stunned face.

“It looks like a plug.”

“Probably because it _is_ a plug. I'm full of lube. All prepared and open for you. All you have to do is slip inside.”

“You're going to be my death.” Mycroft pulled out the plug and gasped.

“But what a lovely one it will be.” Now they could joke about such topics… Sherlock moaned when he felt a hot tongue gliding over his now empty and decidedly open hole. Thankfully, he had used flavoured lube. Peach flavour to be precise.

“Mmm. That tastes good.”

Sherlock grinned. “I know you have a sweet tooth.” He wiggled his arse. “Come on now, fill me up with your big cock before anyone asks you to do some more boring work for the bloody king.”

Mycroft snickered behind him. “Actually we do not have a king.”

“Who cares? Boring! Fuck me now and make me scream the house down!”

And a few moments later, Mycroft did exactly that, and Sherlock soon made sure that everyone in this building, especially a certain nasty lady, heard him and would get even more jealous that this fantastic lover was his soulmate, and his alone.

### Visiting Mummy And Father

“My boys. My dear, dear boys.”

Sherlock smiled when his mother almost crushed him in her embrace after she had greeted his brother in the same manner, who was now in a clumsy embrace with their father.

He had been a tad reluctant to drive up to the house they had grown up in. He remembered very well what Mummy had said on his birthday about him and Mycroft being meant for each other. But it was one thing to theoretically think nobody else was good enough for them and practically meet them as a freshly bonded couple that fucked like rabbits whenever they met.

But now he knew it had been a good idea to come here, and not only because he could fulfil his fantasy of taking his brother in his childhood room, which was a guest room now.

“Let him live, dear,” Father said with a smirk. “Come on boys, tea and cake are waiting for you.”

“Did you hear that, Mycroft? They have _cake_!” Sherlock giggled when Mycroft tried to cast him a stern look once more. He should know by now that wasn't working anymore. With others yes, but not with him.

His arm around his mother's shoulders, they proceeded to go to the living room. Father turned and said, “You look good, son. Your brother's taking good care of you it seems.”

“He surely takes me very well and very often for sure,” Sherlock couldn’t help but answer, and Mycroft rolled his eyes while Mummy giggled and Father blushed with a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Sherlock! Behave!” Mycroft hissed but his eyes looked rather smug.

“Why? I never do.”

“You see what I have to put up with?” the older Holmes brother complained but reached out for Sherlock's free hand at the same time, and Sherlock eagerly entwined his fingers with his brother's, and he shared a smile with Mummy, and her eyes said, _'We'll support you in everything, in every way, always'_ and he squeezed her shoulders, glad they had come.

*****

“You look so happy. Both of you,” Mummy said when Sherlock helped her getting the dishes into the kitchen. Father had asked Mycroft to come with him to have a look at some papers regarding the house.

During teatime, they had mostly talked about the elder Holmes's line dancing adventures and just a bit about the new relationship of the brothers. Actually it had been mostly Mycroft doing the asking, and Mummy had indulged him. Mycroft was feeling a bit shy towards their parents about the soulmate business, Sherlock thought with a fond smile.

“We are,” he said. “In fact I'd have never thought I could ever be so happy.”

“For a short while I thought…” She broke off and opened the dishwasher so she didn’t have to face him.

Sherlock nodded. “I know. So did I. It was a shock for me.”

She sighed. “I should have insisted he shows me his arm again at a later point. I should have spoken to him.”

“No, Mummy. He was shit scared of all this. Especially because he'd loved me for years even before he got the mark.”

“I knew that… I could see it.”

Sherlock swallowed. “And you… didn’t mind?”

“No, love. Never. Life was so difficult at this point and you two were so estranged. It was a mess, and the only thing that made it bearable was the fact that I knew he loves you and I hoped he would get the mark and even if not – I prayed he would one day conquer your heart.”

Sherlock had to sit down. Had he ever thought about what his drug use and preference for danger must have done to his parents? Or Mycroft? Not really. He had rebelled and basically opposed his own well-being for years on end and who knew what would have happened to him if he hadn't found something else to distract him – his work. But he was sure without getting the soul-name he would have never fallen in love with his brother. Or with anyone else. And what a loss that would have been…

Mummy laid a hand onto his cheek. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. You suffered the most.”

 _No_ , Sherlock thought. Probably Mycroft had suffered the most, not only fearing for Sherlock's life for years but being insulted and rejected by him for even longer. The only bright spot was that he now had the opportunity to make up for it. Again and again. For the rest of their lives.

“He doesn’t resent you for anything,” Mummy softly said.

Sherlock produced a wry smile. “I know. He's a saint. And the best lover this side of the universe.”

Mummy looked at him, speechless for a moment, and then she started to giggle and Sherlock fell in with his deep voice a second later.

*****

“It was a bit awkward,” Mycroft said when Sherlock asked him how the conversation with their father had been.

They had gone upstairs to store their luggage in the room that had once been Mycroft's bedroom; of course they would sleep in one bed for the night they would stay with their parents.

“He manoeuvred around asking about our new life together and I…” He shrugged and Sherlock put his arms around his neck.

“…and you didn’t want to tell him about our non-stop fuck-sessions.”

“Dear Lord! What all the sex has done to your language!”

Sherlock grinned. “You can't fool me – you love it.”

“I do. And I love you.”

“My sappy old brother.” Sherlock kissed him and Mycroft squeezed his arse with both hands.

He would never get enough of Sherlock's breathtaking behind. Or his eyes that changed the colour almost constantly. His wonderful lips. The cheekbones he loved to nibble at. The _body_ he loved to nibble at…

Sometimes there were moments when he still couldn’t believe this was really happening. But then he reached out and touched his brother, and he knew it was. Or he texted him, and Sherlock would always answer at once, no matter what he was doing.

“I want to make love to you,” Sherlock said seriously.

“Now? Don't you think we should wait until later?”

“I didn’t say I don't want to do it with you later. But I want it now as well.”

“You're insatiable.”

“I know. I promise I'll be quiet.”

Mycroft snorted and Sherlock pinched his side. “Ouch. You haven’t been quiet once when we did it.”

Sherlock grinned. “Because I didn’t want to. But now – please. Take me.”

“All right. I guess they won't come looking for us…”

“They'll know what we're doing.”

And wasn’t that a tad embarrassing? But sod it – their parents were soulmates as well and even though they had been together for more than forty years, they would still remember this time full of hunger for each other, and they would understand.

“It's amazing how they support us,” he mumbled, and Sherlock nodded while undressing quickly.

“Yes. It makes them happy because they know you've saved me.”

Mycroft tilted his head, and he could imagine which kind of conversation Sherlock had had with their mother. “We're saving each other,” he said then, and they managed to kiss while getting naked, and a rather short preparation later (Sherlock was so used to getting topped that they didn’t have to take to lengthy preparations anymore), he was sinking into his brother's sticky heat, their eyes locked, Sherlock's arms around his neck and his legs around his waist, and when he had found the perfect rhythm, he bent down to capture his brother's mouth in a deep kiss while they were rocking back and forth to mutual completion, in his mind fleeting images of a much younger Sherlock and the years they had spent together in this house, and it didn’t feel awkward to think of his brother as a child; in fact it felt as if they had gone the full circle, always meant for each other in the eyes of a secret power that had made sure they would understand that they were each other's saviour, lover, and soulmate.

### Molly’s Thirtieth Birthday

“Hello, Molly, and happy birthday!” Sherlock clumsily patted her back when she embraced him. “Here, a few goodies from my Mycroft and me. He'll head over soon.”

“Thank you… We shall see how happy it gets,” she said with a wry smile and took the bag from his hand.

Sherlock watched John and Mrs Hudson congratulate her, too, handing over their own presents, and after hanging up their coats they walked over to the living room. It was half past eleven on Molly's thirtieth birthday.

“What do you hope will happen, dear?” Mrs Hudson asked her. “A name or no name?”

Molly shrugged. “It will never be the right name so better none at all.”

Sherlock exchanged a look with John, and the doctor grinned. “It's hard to get over someone as perfect as you,” John whispered, and winced when Sherlock pinched his arm.

“She had years to get over me!” he hissed back.

“Oh, you've decorated everything so beautifully!” Mrs Hudson fluted.

The doorbell rang again and John grinned. “Your other half?”

“Nah. It's Gordon. I'll let him in,” Sherlock offered and hurried to the door. What was he doing here? Comfort Molly about either getting no soul-name at all or the wrong one, as only one name would have been the right one and she knew she'd never get it?

“Hi, Gill.”

Greg grinned and shook his head. “Hello, Shercock.”

“Ha! That's not an insult!”

“No, probably not… Where's the birthday girl?”

“Living room. Don't say anything about soulmates…”

“Touchy subject for everybody except you and your brother,” Greg retorted with a wry grin.

“I'd rather say we're the touchiest here.”

“Without a doubt. Since he's not attached to your hip, or something else, I guess he's not here yet?”

“Give me your coat. No, but he'll be here in a few minutes.”

“I hope Molly has a spare room for you two…”

Sherlock chuckled. “We can muster some self-control. Maybe. Haven't tried yet.” They had been together now for about fourteen months and he didn’t see an end to their passionate addiction to each other. Mycroft was every bit as permanently horny as Sherlock was and there wasn't much they hadn't done with each other already – on the more vanilla side. There were still loads of kinky things to try and Sherlock was basically dying to explore anything from bondage to watersports, but so far they hadn’t got there as they were so keen on being in one another as soon as they met. But soon Sherlock would insist on taking their time to discuss what else they could do and take their time with preparing each other for it. He wasn't complaining about it being on the rather harmless side, if it could be called that. He loved having sex with Mycroft in whichever way.

The doorbell rang again before he could say anything to Lestrade's playfully doubtful face and he almost pushed him aside to get to the door to let his beloved brother in.

*****

“Sherlock… It's almost time.”

“Huh?” Sherlock pulled away from his brother, feeling dizzy from their passionate kissing. A glance at Mycroft's dazed eyes told him he had lost any contact to the real world as well – the real world of Molly Hooper's living room mere seconds before noon.

He took in how the others were looking at them – Lestrade with slightly melancholic amusement, Mrs Hudson full of affection, John, being used to the sight of their snogging the most, with fond indulgence, and Molly, the actual main person of this day, with sadness and anxiety.

Mycroft disentangled from him. “Apologies.”

“No need for that,” Molly said with a soft smile. She rolled up her sleeve. “Wish me luck.”

They all moved closer to her. They had not had lunch yet, just had a glass of champagne and singing 'happy birthday' for Molly. Sherlock had tried his best to not roll his eyes at Mrs Hudson's suggestion to do so, but even Mycroft had joined in with a smile.

As expected, John counted backwards from ten, and when he had reached 'two', Molly's eyes widened and Sherlock remembered how he had felt the first tingling of the name starting to appear and he knew she would get one, too.

“Damn! What is it?” John bent his head over her forearm.

“It's a _'J'_ ,” Mycroft said.

“And that's an 'A'.” Greg narrowed his eyes.

“James,” Sherlock concluded, and Mrs Hudson squealed when the 'M' appeared.

“Do you know someone named 'James', dear?”

If not, she would have a great time finding her soulmate, Sherlock thought, but then Molly nodded fiercely.

“It must be this new guy from IT! He calls himself Jim but his full name must be James!”

“If it's true, I will have him checked through,” Mycroft offered.

Sherlock nodded. “I hope he'll be very good to you, Molly. You deserve it.”

“Damn, all the sex has turned you to jelly,” John murmured and Sherlock slapped his shoulder.

But John was right. He was so happy with his soulmate, and everybody they knew - well, apart from Lady Smallbitch - had been so supportive and he felt very generous towards his friends.

“Come now, Mycroft. Let's eat something and then I want you.”

“You always want me.”

“Problem?”

“Not in the least.”

And they kissed again and soon they had forgotten there were people around them, lost in their desire for each other, Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes – brothers, lovers and soulmates.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help but giving Molly her soul-name. I will leave it to your fantasy to figure out what will happen but I don't see a happy ending for her and Jim :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading and the support! And thanks to my dear ContinentalBlue for the "Lady Smallbitch" expression :)


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